


A New Start

by girlwithapen109



Category: Red Dead Redemption, Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Red Dead Redemption 2, Western - Fandom, rdr2 - Fandom
Genre: Arthur didn't die, Bounty Hunters, Cannibalism, Chapter 6: Beaver Hollow (Red Dead Redemption 2), Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Harm to Animals, Home Invasion, Hunters & Hunting, Marriage, Medical Procedures, Moral Dilemmas, Murfree Brood, Repaying Debt, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2019-09-17 03:30:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 41,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16966857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlwithapen109/pseuds/girlwithapen109
Summary: He spat. A sticky glob of bloody mucous landed thickly on the old wooden floorboards and he lay back, taking in ragged wheezes, the back of his hand smearing blood over his dry lips. Death would be an escape.......................................Arthur has spent so long preparing to die, now he must reconcile with finding a new life after two years recovering from his illness. Charlotte Balfour has learned to survive on her own. But after defending her home from drunk Murfree Brood intruders, Charlotte finds herself in need of help again from an old friend and finds herself thinking less and less of Cal...Major Murfree Brood slaughter.Slow burn romance. Another chance for both Arthur and Charlotte.More chapters to come.





	1. A Lonely Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RDR2 reminiscent song: "Midnight Has Come and Gone" by Charlie Parr

_July 6, 1902_

_Been a long time since I heard English being jawed from every corner._ _No way in hell anyone west of Valentine would recognize me now, but I stayed off the roads and outta the towns, even after I broke clear of Blackwater. Papers reported me dead a long while ago. Been going by 'Joseph Carter'. No trouble yet, so long as Arthur Morgan stays dead and no one recognizes my ugly mug._

_It’s good to be in the mountains again, and in those sweeping, open plains I was raised in. Don’t rightly know what I’m doing with myself. Maybe I’ll find Charles and Sadie one day and thank them for dragging my sorry ass off that mountain. Visit Hosea’s resting place near San Denis, and pay my respects to Hamish at O'Creagh's Run. Beyond that, there’s not much left for me. Can’t go back to my old life now. Feel like I’m still living on borrowed time. Still can’t make sense of anything that’s happened since the gang fell apart. If I were to tell anyone some of the crazy things that have gone on since, they would lock me up for lunacy and send me to an asylum. Best to keep my mouth shut, my head down._

_____________________________________________________________________________

October 31, 1902

The wind whipped around the cabin with mighty, rushing gusts that made the wood groan. The fire in the hearth flickered weakly as Charlotte Balfour added another log. The flames seemed to die for a moment. She leaned in and blew a long, easy breath onto the dying flame. The air encouraged the flame to grow. She stuffed kindling near its weak, grasping tendrils and pushed the mound of twigs toward the fire. Satisfied with her work, she sat back and allowed a weary smile to cross over her face. It had been a hard month. The wood supply was getting low and the cold, humid weather was setting in for the winter. She had gone out the day before and chopped logs until the blisters on her hands broke open and left a smear of blood on the axe handle. The cold would snake in through some of emerging gaps in the cabin siding and bring her a bad chill during the night, and the front door hinges were as weak as they looked. The changing weather was affecting the game, as well. She had no luck bringing home any meat for several days, and so was living solely off of her supply of canned peaches and hash.

The silence of the cabin seemed especially deafening today. Despite the howling wind, she could hear every creak. The setting sun cast a dull, muffled sort of light in the front windows of the cabin and she watched the shadow cast by the table chair grow taller as the sun rays moved. The deepening darkness outside shook her out of her weary thoughts and she stirred to fetch a candle. Her fingers deftly lit a match. She loved the sound of a match striking and sputtering to life. It reminded her of better, more comfortable days, when her father would light his pipe in the evenings. She lit a candle, leaning sadly in its copper holder, and set it softly down on the table before the hearth. She stood staring at the little flame, flickering from the draft in one of the cabin’s siding boards and shivered a little. Sighing, she sat down and pulled her little journal toward her.

She opened its pages and cast a long look at the first page she came across; a memory scrawled in haste, of her and Cal packing their belongings for a move to Willard’s Rest. Her eyes lingered over Cal’s name, her thumb brushing over the pen strokes forlornly. It had been 3 years since his death, since she had buried him down at the foot of the hill. She remembered each shovelful of dirt she removed to prepare the earth for his body, her sobs as she wheeled his stiff, wrapped corpse down to his grave in the wheelbarrow. As well as she remembered those things, there were times when she could scarcely recall his voice or laughter. That saddened her greatly. But every remembrance of those horrible first days without Cal were alleviated by another memory, one of a friend who appeared in the night and offered his help in a gruff tone. Smiling faintly, she thumbed ahead in the journal to that night, when that menacing looking stranger turned out to be the friend she so desperately needed. He had been so ill, though, his face rather ashen and his eyes darkened by deep bags, the wet cough that plagued him. Perhaps he, too, had been laid to rest since their last meeting on her front porch, years ago.

“Arthur,” she murmured. She had never learned his surname. 

She closed the journal decidedly, determined to not stew in her loneliness. It had been her choice to remain in the cabin at Willard’s Rest, not only because the thought of leaving Cal’s grave upset her, but because she had found some new portion of herself, previously hidden. This new part was stubborn against failure and proud, nearly to a fault, of her accomplishments. She had learned to thrive in an unforgiving place and to march through difficulty. And she had written stories, published some even, to the New Hanover Gazette. Her stories were being read from Annesburg to Valentine, and she was fiercely proud of that and the small income it afforded her. Because of these successes, she had not returned home. Most of her kin had passed, so any homecoming would have been a dreary affair and the loss of the freedom she enjoyed in the woods would have been a heavy blow to bear. And so she stayed and even thrived, mostly due to the charity and friendship of the neighbors down the road.  
She looked to her pile of provisions in the corner and realized that she would need to make another supply run soon, or face hunger again. Rising, she collected the coffee tin from underneath the cabinet and counted her small store of funds. Frowning, she counted twenty dollars in coins and bills and began to scheme of how she might make it down to the newspaper office and collect her payment soon. The sum seemed so small, in light of how many things needed repairing in the cabin. Setting her mouth into a firm line, she sealed the tin and gazed out into the darkness outside the window.

She would survive. That much she knew.


	2. Intruders

_November 12, 1902_

_Wandered out west, then down south. Feel like a ghost of myself. Stronger now, maybe, but less than before, even without the damn cough. Maybe I'll never be the same man I once was. _

_Hunted and trapped for pelts out in New Hanover for a few weeks. It's strange to make an honest living, but at least it don't come weighed down with doubt, guilt or bullets flying at me. Maybe I'll move north again. Got no reason to stay in any one place anymore. Can't help but think on whatever friends might be left to the north. Perhaps the Wapiti would take on a wandering soul._

_Bought some food off an old miser. Bread was wrapped in a newspaper from Valentine. Whose name should I see written there in faded ink but Charlotte Balfour's. Some story about good triumphin' over evil or some such. Seems like she's come a long way._

 ____________________________________________________________________________________

November 25, 1902

 Charlotte’s body swayed with the rhythm of the horse’s quick pace. Her collar flared out as a barrier against the cold wind, and she pushed the brim of Cal’s old hat down over her face as the horse followed the path. The snow would arrive soon. She could feel it. But her supply run had been successful, and the payment from her writings rested safely in a small bundle. It was enough to make it until the weather broke.

Arriving home, she trotted toward her cabin. Before passing Cal, she clutched solemnly at her heart in greeting to the worn cross, covered now by a thin layer of snow. His presence seemed so far-removed from her life now. But as she neared Cal’s resting place, her eyes picked up something strange in the snow. Hoofprints. From more than one horse. Pulling up on the reins sharply, she urged her mount to slow. Her eyes flickered from the prints to her cabin, which seemed to bear no signs of life. Alerted, she clenched her cold hands into stiff fists and swallowed the fear that settled in her stomach. Seeing no signs of anyone, or any footprints approaching the hill to her cabin, she turned the horse to follow the hoof prints into the trees. They seemed to lead away from her home, not toward it. Finding some relief in this, she rested one hand on the rifle holstered on the saddle and turned toward the cabin again, careful to look for prints or any signs of danger. Finding none, she dismounted quietly. Pulling the rifle from the saddle, she approached the cabin from the side, to stay hidden. Shouldering the firearm, she moved silently up the steps and paused at the front door. Through the window, there was nothing to be seen; no movement. With a burst, she opened the door and stepped quickly within, the rifle ready to fire.

There was nothing within. She was alone. Letting out a long, grateful breath she turned her mind to bringing in the supplies and preparing supper. Money in the tin, food in the house, she could rest easy.

The rice and canned salmon mixture crackled in her cast iron pot. She leaned over it, stirring it eagerly. It had been a long day, and the food was her reward. Finally done, she began to scrape the food into a bowl when two gruff voices outside jolted her upright. The voices were loud and raucous, and she did not recognize them as she would have recognized her neighbor’s voices. Tensing, she quickly put the pan down and moved quickly for the rifle. Bolting the door, she positioned herself beside the window and peered out from below, so as to not show herself. After four years of living in relative solitude, she had never encountered any trouble from stranger…yet here were three strange men, two stumbling drunkenly off of their horses and the other beginning to sing in a coarse, faltering timber. “ _I got a girl in Berryville…ca_ n’t _be screwed cuz she’s too damn ill…”_  
  
_Murfree Brood,_ she thought uneasily. She watched them approach the house. They stood for a moment, one swaying horribly and pitching his song, the others considering the cabin. She tensed when one declared he needed to get out of the cold. His boots resounded on the few stairs before the porch. Her mind racing, Charlotte considered what she should do. She needed to scare them off.  
The door began to jostle. Charlotte’s breath came ragged and fast. She could wait to see if they leave, deterred by the bolted door. Or she could shout and demand that they leave…but if they weren’t threatened by her, then there was no backup. Perhaps she could get the drop on them—  
Before she could decide, a voice shouted, “Damn door is stuck!” The other’s husky voice still rattled on with the same song, with no response. _“…wo_ n’t _take less than seven_ dollaaaarrrsss _…”_  
The door began to jostle more roughly. Afraid, Charlotte stood up shakily from the corner, the rifle to her shoulder, and gathered her voice to shout, “Get out! You aren’t welcome here!”  
The door fell still. Breathing hard, Charlotte waited. No sound.  
“Youse all ‘lone in there, woman?” one man shouted. “Ain’t no one up here but poor trappers, miners and widows an’ we awfully cold. Open ‘er up!”  
“Get off my land or you won’t see another day.”  
“Benjamin, I doubt this woman’s speakin’ truth—” Suddenly there was a heavy thump. The door hinges jostled hard. “—Benjamin, no shoulder gonna break down the door. Woman, let us in or we gonna freeze in our boots—” Another hard thump.

  
Charlotte backed away. Were these some other men, she may have waited to act. But she knew of the Murfrees; stories of kidnapping, defiling both men and women, consuming their fellow man's flesh. Every passing moment lessened her chances, and this was no time to be weak. In desperation, she raised her gun and aimed in the middle of the door’s length.  
The shot rang through the cabin. For a second there was just the ringing of the shot left in her ears, before she heard a shout and angry moans of pain. Then there came shots fired back—Charlotte felt a sharp, ripping, stinging sensation in her leg but rushed into the safety of the bedroom and leaned only her head out. Gasping, she found blood gushing from her leg, seeping slowly from the layers of clothing and spreading out into the outer skirt she wore.  
The cries continued until the door was slammed into again—this time enough to knock the hinge off, something that occurred even without outside encouragement. Charlotte let out a fearful sound and shot again into the now open doorway.

  
The rifle shot pierced the singer’s chest cavity. He cursed and fell against the wall, moaning in pain. The other man shouted and charged at her. Chambering another rifle cartridge, Charlotte hurriedly shot again as the drunk slammed into her and knocked the rifle barrel away and into the wall. The bullet tore a hole through the wood and the rifle was wrestled from Charlotte’s grip as the intruder grabbed her by the arms and held her down. Without knowing it, a ragged scream escaped her as she struggled against the large man’s strength. She pitched her whole body against his weight, but whatever ground she gained through desperation was lost to his bulk. As she fought, the third man began to pour through her belongings, through the armoire, through the kitchen cabinets…  
Her attacker wrestled her upright and threw her weight up, slamming her onto the top of the bed. Shouting, she rolled about fruitlessly as he climbed aggressively on top of her. One hand pushed down her chest while the other roughly went up her skirts. His breath was hot on her face as he started to pant hard.

The need to survive outweighed her fear.  _The knife._ Her right hand clutched at the blankets beneath her, preparing to reach for the weapon she kept on her nightstand table, but the weight on top of her was too much. Playing her only hand remaining, she brought her knee sharply up into his groin. Twice she brought her knee up before she felt his grip break. She reached for the knife, gripped it and slashed blindly at his face with purpose. There was a hoarse scream and Charlotte felt blood on her face before the intruder pulled away hard, gripping at his eyes. Charlotte shakily rolled away from him and ran, blinded with fear, to her gun on the floor and into the hearth room.  
  
The singer lay dead near the door. She immediately swept her eyes over the room, but the third intruder was gone, and as she turned to face the bedroom door she only heard sounds of agony from her attacker. Suddenly, she saw his stumbling body begin to appear in the doorway. With a desperate, guttural shout she opened fire but only struck his shoulder. The man screamed again and stumbled far past her to the open door, where he escaped into the freezing night. Running now, she followed and picked up the fallen door, struggling with its size, and propped it up into its place, throwing her body weight onto it for want of hinges to keep it shut. She immediately aimed the rifle at the still body on the floor, but did not dare move from the door, lest the other return through it. A long blood smear curved from the wall to the floor, where the man had fallen face first in the floor. Blood pooled around him, and Charlotte could see his glazed over eyes staring sightlessly right through her.

She _knew_ she should rip open the door and find the other intruder. Make sure he was no threat to her any more. But her whole body trembled and she stood frozen, pushing the door shut against a man who may or many not have run off, unable to will herself to move away. Her mind returned to her even as her body shook and her pulse hammered hard in her ears. Her leg was on fire and she feared there might be a bullet stuck in her.

Her breath coming in ragged stints, she slid from against the door and threw her weight against the armoire until she pushed it into place against the door. She turned to the body on the floor, taking solace that he was well and truly gone. Every drawer in the house was hanging open and her belongings had been thrown to the floor. With hard realization, she saw the empty coffee tin laying on its side.

The rifle again in her grip, she moved to her bedroom and closed the door. She roughly shut the curtains, propped her back against the corner wall and slid down it, her breath beginning to slow. As her heart stilled her breath came in long, stuttering sobs. Rolling up the skirts, she found the bullet wound and sucked in her breath as pain radiated from it. Taking the knife that had saved her, she cut strips from the bottom of her skirt and tied them around the wound tightly. The blue material of her dress was covered in crimson from the man and drenched from her mid-lower-leg down. The sight of so much blood barely affected her with how fatigued she felt. A chill passed over her as blood seeped into the tight bandages over the wound. Her hand over the top of the wound, she winced and forced pressure onto it. 

She did not want to sleep. Her ears strained at every creak. But her exhausted mind reeled and her body willed her to rest. Finally, her body sagged against the wall and she fell into an uneasy sleep and dreamed of disturbing things until she would awake with a jerk and remember her mission to stay alert. Unbeknownst to her, the fire died out in the main room. A chill began to set in as snow began to fall, flurried by heavy gusts of wind. Charlotte fell into a deep sleep, disturbed by visions of being crushed with an impossible weight, a fire raging in her legs and of Cal, dying in the very room she guarded.

The sun rose over Willard’s Rest, revealing snow drifts high enough to cover even a tall man’s knees.

Charlotte felt dead…or dying. Her eyelids parted slowly and took in the light shining dull and gray through the window. Her head was slumped painfully against her shoulder, her body was stiff from having slept hunched over, and her head pounded hard against her skull. It was cold enough to freeze water over in the room she was barricaded in, and she felt it. Looking down at her waxy white hands with an empty stare, she tried to bend her fingers but felt only pain. Her leg ached like hell. Closing her eyes again, she felt a wave of apathy sweep over her. So this was how it ended. Slumped over on the floor, frozen solid and shot up. It was a proper Shakespearian ending, her last day tinged with tragedy.

Her head fell back against the wall. She closed her eyes. Perhaps someone would find her, bury her near Cal. She passed into a black haze, unaware of everything but the need to sleep.  
“Charlotte. _Charlotte_!”  
She didn’t hear her name being called out, nor feel the hands upon her face.  
“Charlotte—I’ve got ya. I’ve got ya.”


	3. I'll Come Running

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlotte recognizes her rescuer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan on really letting this story develop out. I went back and added some journal entries from Arthur into the previous chapters. 
> 
> Comments and suggestions are appreciated! More chapters coming soon.

She felt unbearably warm, her face radiating heat from the fever that had overtaken her. Waking, Charlotte found herself lying on the floor in front of the hearth, her body wrapped in a blanket, her head pillowed on her arm. She raised her head, feeling dazed and fatigued. She began to sit up— only to be kept from it by a sudden grip on her shoulder.  
“Don't move. Not while I’m diggin’ a bullet outta you. Gonna have to lay back.” The voice was low and terse, but not unkind. Still unaware, she groaned and tried to move again. This time two hands eased her back down. “Stay like you are—an’ bite on this.” He placed a folded cloth between her teeth.

The pain was excruciating and sudden. Her ankles held in a strong grip, the cold metal that dug into her leg twisted and caused flashes of color and darkness to cloud her vision. If she was shouting, she was not aware of it, only of the pain and of the cloth she bit into. Then, some relief and—“ _There_ it is.” Only half conscious, she lay back, breathing heavily and feeling snot run down her face. A broad, blurred outline of a man appeared in her vision, and she felt a thumb brush her cheek. “This'll be the worst of it, now. Bite down on that kerchief—an' try not to kick at me.”

The knife blade scraped the stones on the hearth edge as it was removed from the flame. Charlotte’s eyes widened before she felt the man’s body weight hold her legs down, saw the knife disappear and then—a scream exploded from her lungs. She thrashed against the searing heat, but she could not move her legs because of the weight of the stranger. Then it was over. Taking the cloth from her clenched teeth, the man was then wrapping her wound with long strips of cloth.

“ _Easy_ now.” The voice was low and close to her ear. Charlotte closed her eyes again and fell into a stupor. Her sleep was deep. She lay like a corpse for hours, until long after the sun had set and the moon had risen. When she stirred at last, she could not recall where she was. Blinking heavily into the firelight, she felt her body, heavy as a brick to her, and head sway as if rocked in a ship at sea. Her lips were cracked and her throat as dry as old bones.

Realizing that whoever had dug out the bullet from her leg was still nearby, she raised her eyes to his still form, sleeping on the floor beside her. He was seated with his shoulder to the stones in the hearth, one leg up and one arm stretched out over his knee. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady movements. The fire cast his features in shadow, and she did not recognize him for it. While she did not recognize him, she did not fear him. His unassuming position at the fire and the fact that he had aided her gave her confidence that he was not a threat.  
Unable to stand her thirst any longer, she rolled to her knees and elbows. The room swam before her and her stomach lurched at the movement. Unable to support her weight, she put out a hand to the hearth and gripped it with all of her strength. A rough, calloused hand clasped her shaking one. She looked up to the stranger.

“Easy, easy—I’m not here to hurt you, Charlotte. Damned if I ever saw a woman survive more than you.” He rose with a groan from the floor, helped her to sit up.

His features still obscured in the dim light, his voice recalled his name to her memory. “Arthur?” she rasped.

Arthur Morgan smiled solemnly at her. “Miss Charlotte.” He stood and departed for a moment. She listened to his footsteps return to her. “Here. You gotta drink somethin’.” He knelt beside her. She reeled at the sudden movement, her eyes only half open. His arm around her shoulders, he offered her a canteen. She grasped it and drank quickly, the cold water running down her throat and restoring life.

She coughed into her sleeve. “How—did you find—”

“I saw your front door was lyin’ down on the job, figured that was a bad sign of things. Then I got that ol’ chest moved and I saw the feller with his chest blown open. Figured, if you was still around, that it couldn’t be good. Thought you was dead, too.”

At the mention of the dead man, her head craned back to see if the corpse was still there. Arthur followed her eyes. “I dragged him outside. Too much lead in him for him to darken your doorway again. So, who was it, who came shooting at you?" 

"Murfree Brood. There's been talk of them in Annesburg and the paper for the past few months--how they've been causing trouble again on the back roads." She shook her head. "If the door hadn't fallen in, I might have kept them out." 

Arthur grunted. "Bastards."  

She settled her head back and looked into his face. He was strikingly different than before. The man she had met years before had looked a proper mountain man, obscured mostly by hair and an obviously sickly appearance. Now, his face, though still gaunt, had a healthy look, which pleased her. He was surprisingly tanned for the beginning of winter. His beard was shaved, with only a short layer of stubble dusting his jaw, which revealed his features to her for the first time. A scar ran from his lip to beneath his chin, another across the bridge of his nose. His hair, once long, now sat cropped at the sides, giving him a more respectable appearance than she remembered him by. Between the solid grasp that supported her and the steady look in his eyes, all of the old trust she felt toward him rushed back and she took great solace in the physical contact. 

She could not fully express her gratitude with words, her throat still raw. She reached out her hand, overcome with comfort at his presence, and cupped his face in one hand. He stiffened at her touch, unprepared for it, but he did not pull away. Her gentle hand caused him to remember their last meeting. The kiss, as chaste as if given from a relative, had somehow stayed with him for years now and meant more than any passionate exchange from a stranger.

Holding her hand there against his cheek, her words came out raspy and thick. “Thank you.”

The solemn smile returned. “Whenever you need me, I’ll come runnin’.”

 _____________________________________________________________________________

_November 27, 1901_

_Headed up to Willard’s Rest. Thought it might be nice to see a familiar face on this grand tour north I’ve been on. Felt strange riding up those old paths, remembering old times. Got up to the cabin, found the door lying on the ground, bullet holes in the walls, dead man on the floor, Charlotte near frozen over and bloodied. Looks like she held her own but was bleeding out. Thought she was dead, for how waxy white her flesh was when I found her. Ended up trying to warm her up with my own body heat, which revived her a little. Had to dig a bullet from her leg. Between the cold, fever and the blood loss, didn’t think she’d live longer than a day. She woke up, though, and knew me. So now I’m a nursemaid, least until she can make it on her own again._

_Thinking on her, I would have guessed she’d of married again by now—fine woman such as her. Quality of person don’t always dictate such things, I suppose._


	4. A Dangerous Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur takes matters into his own hands. 
> 
> *Note: Some inspiration taken from Good Wives by Louisa May Alcott

The door hung awkwardly as Arthur positioned it. With a rusted nail held between his teeth, he picked up a hammer and set to nailing the hinges back into the wooden frame. The door finally back in place, Arthur ran his fingers over the bullet holes and frowned. Shaking his head, he tested the door, closing it firmly behind him.

A scurry caught his attention near the shed. Arthur froze, his hand moving to the holster at his hip. Silently, he stepped to the corner of the porch and raised his pistol to the bales of hay inside the open face shed. Looking down the sights, giving it some lead with his eye, he pulled back the hammer and let out the last of the air from his lungs, finally squeezing the trigger.The shot broke the silence of the morning. He found the rat in the loose hay and picked it up by its tail, its guts blown outward from his shot. The corner of his mouth quirked up in a quick smile. “Got'chya this time.”

The midafternoon sun came and went, and Arthur threw his coat off and rolled up his sleeves. He secured the loose siding off the porch, meticulously laying it flat against the wall and nailing it down securely. Every hour, he would take a moment to look in on Charlotte’s still form in her room or replace the water pitcher. Laying the back of his hand against her forehead, he felt the fever and saw her pallor had not improved. She looked pitiable. Her appearance was a remembrance of his own from not so long ago, and it brought to memory every damnable word every well-meaning shopkeeper or station clerk had ever said to him.

Looking around the room, his eyes settled on the picture of Charlotte and Cal on the wall. He turned to look at it. Charlotte stirred suddenly, stopping him. She sat up, her hair loosely hanging down, naturally disheveled from two days of heavy sleep. “What day is it?” she murmured.

“Thursday, I believe,” he replied gravely, though truly he did not well know either.

“You’ve been watching over me.”

“Couldn’t leave you keeled over.” He sat down in the chair near the bed, his elbows against his thighs. “Besides, I recall you once did the same for me. Had to repay the favor.”

She returned his easy smile. She had awoken once in the night to see him diligently working in a leather-bound book, his gaze often considering her before returning to the page before him. She glanced down, heat coming to her cheeks. “Well, I’m bound in gratefulness to you.”

“Weren’t nothing to be bound by,” he said, brushing the thanks off. “How’s your leg?”

She did not answer, but pulled the blankets from her feet. She still wore the blood-stained dress; Arthur had not presumed to remove it. When he had first come upon her and there was no warmth in the cabin, he had done for Charlotte what Abigail had once done for Jack after a particularly bitter night, keeping their bodies close to share heat and revive cold flesh. He had sat beside her and pulled her close, his hands rubbing heat into her shoulders and arms as the fire he built in the hearth grew hot. The contact then had been almost thoughtless, done out of the desire to bring her back to consciousness. But now he refrained from even laying his hand across her ankle to better inspect the wound, not from a sense of shame but from one of respect. “I do believe I’ll recover,” she said.

"High stakes souvenir." 

"There is one thing that I cannot help but wonder on..." She considered him for a moment. "What led you here? If not divine providence, then surely God heard whatever prayers that kept me through the night." 

His fingers drummed over his thigh.  "Well..." He didn't have the right words.  _Just needed a familiar face. Been alone too long._ "Actually, it was this." He reached into his front pocket, pulled out the newspaper article with her name. He passed the worn paper to her. 

She took it, surprised. Her eyes ran over the worn title. "This is an old one." 

"Found it a couple of weeks back. Recognized your name." 

She waited for more of an answer, some insight into his sudden appearance. Realizing it would not come, she folded it carefully to pass back toward him. 

He shook his head. "It's done its job, I think." 

She extended out her hand farther to him, placed it into his open palm. "It has, and it still belongs with you." 

Arthur closed his fingers over it, glanced to the floor and cleared his throat. "Glad it did bring me. Thought you were a corpse when I first saw ya." 

Her expression darkened. “They took the horse, didn’t they?”

“Must’ve. Only horse outside is mine.”

“Then they took both the horse and my wages. It—it will be a hard thing, to get by without both.” 

Arthur considered her gravely. “Tell me what happened. I know that you stood ‘em off.”

Charlotte frowned. “They were drunk. They…wanted in. I knew what would happen if they succeeded. I shot at them, to scare them off, but they were drunk and would not be deterred. Then they got through the door. I…I killed one. Another went through the house. The third one, he…” she paused, her gaze settling on the bed she rested in, her look far off. Arthur watched her, anger flashing cold in his eyes as she struggled to find the words.  “Well, I kept him from his intentions. I might have blinded him.”

“He deserved it,” Arthur murmured.

"Then I got another shot off, hit the last one again before he got out. By then, it was all I could do to drag the armoire against the doorframe and try to stop the bleeding. I got so cold...I think I would have died, had you not come."

 They both fell silent, Charlotte looking down into her hands and Arthur staring broodingly out the window. “Well, there’s no use now. It’s too late to recover what they took.” She looked to Arthur, who looked at her with a hard expression.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” He stood. 

“You wouldn’t go after them, would you?” Her tone was incredulous.

“Don’t worry on it.”

“But, Mr – ” she broke off, realizing that she did not know the last name of the man who had now twice saved her. “I don’t even know your last name.”

Arthur looked at her with a curious expression. Feeling brusque, he nearly said, _Don’t matter_. But something in the way she said it gave him pause, and he did not want to brush her off or lie to her. However, Arthur Morgan was dead. And so he could not resurrect him, even though he wished too. Better for her to not know. “Carter,” he said, a half-second too late.

Charlotte scrunched her nose up at his answer, sensing the odd hesitation to so simple a question. As he began to gather some things together into his rucksack, she sat straight up. Tired of sitting by helplessly, but still fatigued, she rested her feet against the cold wood floor and stood up, supporting her weight entirely on her right leg. She hobbled to the doorway. Arthur was shouldering his rifle. “You can’t expect to go and demand everything back.”

“Sometimes the debt collector comes ‘round, an’ we ain’t prepared to pay for our sins or lack of foresight.”  _And I've a practiced hand at debt collecting,_ he thought to himself, darkly. 

“They could kill you. You’re just one man.”

He looked up, hearing the sadness in her words. “Murfrees have done enough around here. Especially to you.” He stepped closer to her, only leaving about two feet between them. There was a sudden roughness about him, a readiness for violence that she had not yet seen in him. He pulled his worn Gambler's hat down low on his brow. “Revenge is a fool's game--I only want what's yours, returned to you. I’ll not go in with blazing guns." He gave her a smirk. "I _do_ use my head on occasion.”

She could not help but feel how near he stood to her. Absentmindedly, she realized her heart had quickened.

Nodding once to her, he departed. She watched from the window as he saddled a black Hungarian Halfbred outside. Swinging himself up into the saddle, he did not look back as he rounded the corner, out of sight. Clutching the wall for support, she began to wonder what kind of man would lie about his name, but selflessly come to her aid time and time again. _A dangerous man_ , she decided.


	5. Reflections on Wearier Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On his way to recover Charlotte's property, Arthur reflects over the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are so many science fiction themes hidden in the RDR2 map, that I thought Arthur's health could have a similar note of mystery behind it.  
> More chapters to come.
> 
> Also, I've fallen in love with indy blues music and I think the song "O Death" sung by Shakey Graves encapsulates Arthur's mood in this chapter.

The ease of breathing still bewildered him. As he traveled, Arthur breathed in deeply. He let the frigid air fill his lungs slowly, expanding his chest out, until his lungs forced the air back out. He often caught himself noticing how natural it was to inhale, to exhale, thoughtlessly and mechanically. The air filled him with a sense of liberty and choice, and it felt wrong to take any breath for granted...not since his life had been given back to him.

     The path he followed was dark, obscured by the last rays of the setting sun. Unable to see the game trail he followed, Arthur only eased his mount on, allowing it to gingerly pick out the path up the hill. If his memory served him well, then Butcher’s Creek should be up ahead, directly west, into the setting sun. Though the woods looked different shrouded in snow, Arthur recognized the old paths and had known which roads to avoid, hoping to steer clear of any travelers.

     Not wanting to approach Butcher’s Creek in the dark, Arthur’s weary eyes fell on a tree with long, overhanging branches that had shielded the ground beneath them from the worst of the snow drifts. Dismounting, he began to gather dead branches, sticking up from the snow. Soon he sat on his bedroll inside his tent, the fire slightly brightening his damp mood. As he stared into the flames, old memories of wasted years and treacheries stirred up within him. There were softer memories, too—hunting with Hosea, riding with the gang, finding comfort from Mary Beth, fishing with Jack, Pearson complaining about the general lack of stew meat, confessing things from his past to Rains Fall and Sister Calderon. But such things had faded in light of the guilt he carried for years of reckless bloodshed and over betrayals that still felt fresh, despite the passing years.

 _Dutch, Micah._ The names left a sour taste in his mouth and he let out a huff of disgust, his breath steaming into the cold air. He would never forget the empty expression in Dutch’s cold eyes as he turned his back on him and left him to die by knife point, or how his foot had kept Arthur from lifting the pistol to kill Micah on that mountain top. While Hosea had been more of a father to him than his true father, Dutch, though younger, had been a mentor, a brother, even. His indifference at the end had stung. 

     Then Micah— _That damn rat._ Despite the army of Pinkertons and the fact that all hell had broken loose, Micah had come back just to _kill him._ Then he had snaked away like the reptile he was, thinking Arthur dead and leaving him to drag himself to the edge of the cliff, to gaze out over the rising sun.

He had welcomed death, in those quiet minutes that dragged on before him. Between the beating he took from Micah and the agony that every breath sent shooting through him, he longed for a release from all of the pain he had endured for the past year. Lying on the bitterly cold earth, his body growing slack and utter nothingness filling his thoughts, he felt no sorrow. His breath, wet and heavy, had escaped his lips in heavy wheezes. There, lying on that mountain side, his life should have ended. He could have passed on to whatever lay in wait for his soul, his body remaining there behind, and been free of the torturous months ahead. Yet, he had endured. Despite everything, despite all the trials his body had survived since the onset of the wasting disease and how much he wanted death to take him up in its icy grasp…he had not passed on. Too exhausted to move, he had watched listlessly as the sun rose higher and higher into the sky.

     But then they had come. _Oh, Arthur, Arthur._ Sadie Adler’s voice had jarred him from his apathy. He rolled his head back toward her, the movement strained and slight. With deadened eyes, he watched her grief turn to sharp surprise. Then in her aggressive, terse way she chastised him for laying there like a corpse and _not sayin’ nothin’ to her_. Then another familiar voice; Charles’ slow, measured tone fell on his tired ears and Arthur had felt fingers on his neck searching for a pulse. Barely conscious, Arthur was lifted into the back of a wagon and covered in a hot blanket, from head to toe, perhaps to help him pass as a body...as if he hadn't already looked like one. He had awoken in a tipi later, Rains Fall sitting beside him, a heavy smell of smoke and herbs filling his nostrils. "It is an honor to have you," Rains Fall had said. "You brought my son back to me." 

     The next days passed slowly. He lived life as an invalid for a week, with Charles and the Wapiti tending to his battered body. Sadie stayed with him for a while, until deciding she had business to see to down south. Arthur barely recalled their goodbye.

Finally, when his body had healed from the beating he had taken and the Wapiti uprooted themselves once more for a long march north, he and Charles had then traveled on a south-bound train to Rhodes. Arthur needed to go south, find some dry  climate for his scarred lungs. Under cover of night, Charles had helped him to Flat Iron Lake’s eastern shore. Hoping to find a way past Blackwater without crossing it’s border, Charles rowed him across the lake and down past the dangerous territory, into the desert below. From there, they said goodbye for what felt like the last time, and Arthur watched a man he considered a brother slip back out into the water, his oars silent on the still lake. 

     Wandering westward, he got into a scuffle in Armadillo and barely walked away alive. He blended in well there, amongst the cholera victims. The mass graves outside of town chilled him, and he hated the thought of rotting down in a shared hole. He kept on, eventually settling farther west. He then lived alone down in a place called the Del Lobo House, a shack off the river. Though no better than a squatter, he was at least far from the bounty on his head and the humid air that brought horrendous coughing fits. Living off of fish from the river and Desert Bighorns, he recovered enough to continue on alone. But the loneliness and his waning strength began to wear on him and his days felt empty and useless. It was only because of a passing traveler that he heard of the place that would change the course of his numbered days.

     Farther south, in Mexico, there was a mission that helped men such as him...a haven for those with consumption, a place to heal or die in peace. The journey would be short, and he could not bear to carry on as he was, with every step plagued with heavy breaths and splitting headaches. So, he found himself traveling by foot to the south. The mission was a sort of Tuberculosis haven , a place that Arthur would come to think of as a leper colony. They may as well have been lepers, for how everyone steered clear of him when he first stumbled up the mission steps and into the adobe walls. He had felt profoundly alone there. He only knew a handful of words and how to insult someone’s mother in Spanish, besides not understanding a lick of it. This barrier threw him into isolation from any true contact with the nuns that cared for him. They treated him gently, like a sickly youth, which grew to infuriate him as the days turned into weeks. _Pobrecito_ , they murmured over him. The word soon instilled a hot rage in him, and for want of understanding it, it may as well have meant _weak and helpless bastard_.

      Just as he was near to losing his mind for want of being able to talk with someone, he heard her kind voice. “ _Mr. Morgan_!”

    Arthur's eyes slid open.  "...Sister?" 

     There she stood, unchanged, in her habit. She looked upon him with kindness and surprise, but not pity. Arthur sensed how she kept it from her voice, how she spoke so lightly around him, as if he were some healthy young buck and not soon for the grave. He was grateful for it. 

     Sister Calderon became a constant companion. She had merely been there to visit the sick while on her mission, but she had recognized him, despite the sallow, corpse-like look that then marked him. If she wondered how he had arrived in Mexico in such a state, she never voiced it. She came often, always with some new subject to inform him about from the streets or the newspaper. Despite her usual chatter, her care was more welcome than he ever let on.

He passed through bouts of feeling somewhat steady to days where the coughing worsened horribly. One morning after such a night, Arthur awoke and found her asleep in the chair near his bedside. It was then that Arthur began to suspect she cared for him, an alien thought to him. Who was he that she should spend her free hours at his bed, besides some miscreant she had run into in San Denis? Perhaps she saw him like the youths she had once cared for--the street boys, the pickpockets with no mothers to watch over them. He once considered how his own life may have been different, had some soul like Sister Calderon had found him and not Hosea and Dutch. While her fondness for him remained constant, his own warmth toward her grew as the months passed. She was a welcome presence in his wretched hours, and he often found himself laughing or smiling during their talks. It lightened his days considerably. 

One evening, Arthur had smiled at her weakly as she took his hand in her own. She urged him to hang on, to fight. _Fight for what?_ He had thought. _There’s nothin’ left to fight for._ But despite her encouragements, it was clear to everyone that he was not long for the world. So, he waited with growing impatience for _anything_. To die or to regain some strength would have been a relief, anything but remain trapped in his bed, the cough only aggravating the pain of breathing. Sister Calderon’s visits became more frequent as the weeks dragged on. She came one evening, a humid wind blowing in from the window, the first signs of a storm.

     “You’re a stubborn man, Mr. Morgan,” she informed him, “too stubborn to die.”

    He had laughed bitterly, weakly, the sudden rush of air causing another coughing fit. She waited for it to pass. Finally, his shoulders heaving, he lay back, winded. “I’d gladly be a lamb, if it meant endin’ all…” he gestured angrily at himself “… _this_.”

    “It is frustrating, to lose strength, to lose freedom.”

     Arthur frowned at that. “Don’t need to remind me.”

     “You were very different when we first met.”

     “Yeah—back when I could take a shit by myself.”

     She smiled at the snide comment, unfazed. “You were stronger, perhaps, but also weaker. Conflicted. The Mr. Morgan I see today is a man of character.”

    “Well, it’s done me a whole load of good. Landed me in the same place as I would’ve been—only poorer.”

     “No, no. Richer. You have made marks in this world. Some were bad, some good, like any man. But many were helped, many better off for your hand. Let go of the old self and embrace it. Take comfort in it.”

     Arthur had shaken his head. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.” He sighed. “All’s I know is…I hope death takes me soon.” His voice went low and soft. “Hope it takes me tonight.”

    "Consumption is a curious thing. It can live with a man for years while he is none the wiser that it is there, it can strike down the young and old...and yet some can walk alongside it, not the same as they were before, but still able to go on. I believe that God has some greater purpose for you. Some path that you have not yet found. One that may lead you to some comfort, despite the past." 

    "I don't deserve such comfort, Sister." 

     "All men deserve another chance, Mr. Morgan." 

    He looked at her with a hollow gaze, almost staring past her. "Tried to leave my old life behind once," he murmured. "Ended with a woman turnin' her back on me for what I was and running into some fool farmer's arms. I can't even blame her. If I was her, I would've turned away, too. Then the same woman strung me along again after her husband died of pneumonia and I followed along behind again, idiot that I am. Wanted me to run away with her...but I couldn't just up an' leave like that." He spat into the jar he kept by the bed. "Before her, I could've gone straight and stayed with Liza, and the boy...but I was a fool then, too. I forsook them and they died because of it. They might have had good lives if I could have cleaned up mine. I might've been some tradesman, with a wife and a kid an' some purpose for myself." He chuckled bitterly, an empty sound. "First time I held that kid, it changed me. His mother hadn't even wanted me to see him at first, but she was all alone out there, fendin' for herself and the boy. It was like looking at a part of myself...same eyes, same nose. I remember vowing to him that he'd grow up knowing his father, that I'd help him to make somethin' more of himself than me."

"But then you found the graves," the Sister said, remembering the story from Emerald Ranch Station.

"Found the graves. That day changed me, too. Started killin' more folks. Some deserved it, most didn't. It's...it's because of that I know that wretches like me don't deserve no peaceful endings. I've robbed too many folks of their peace, of their lives to expect any good in return. The only good I can see is leavin' this body." His voice grew lower, more hoarse and desperate. "It's like I'm trapped, already stuck in hell. This ain't no life, Sister. Can't abide like this anymore." 

     She gave him a knowing, sympathetic look that he did not see. She might have countered his dreary pronouncements with some levity if his face had held more life or his limbs more strength. Even for all her hope and prayers, he was growing weaker and she had seen stronger men die of far less. He had hung on for months now, but it was clear that he was beginning to give up, to long for the end. She had seen the fight go out of his eyes as the days passed, and it troubled her heart.

She stood and ran a wrinkled hand through his hair, a motherly gesture. “ _Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness._ You have found a new path, worked to fix some of the cruelty in this world. You..." Her voice caught in her throat. "...you have blessed me, Mr. Morgan. I hope God will ease your suffering, but…I will be sad to lose my friend.”

    Wordlessly, he met her eye for a long moment. He swallowed the lump that settled, cleared his throat and allowed her to rest her hand on his weary brow. “See that they bury me proper, Sister. Don’t let ‘em burn me or throw me into the earth in some mass grave." 

     She spoke softly, matching his tone. “I’ll see it done."  She left without another word, leaving him in darkness.

    Then, the storm came. Rain pattered hard on the straw roof and leaked through. Arthur had been leaning half out of the wood slat bed he lay on, the hot night air giving his skin a sheen of sweat, coughing deeply and wetly onto the floor. He spat. A sticky glob of bloody mucous landed thickly on the old wooden floorboards and he lay back, taking in ragged wheezes, the back of his hand smearing blood over his dry lips. The sound of rain and thunder occupied him as he struggled for breath, and as lightning flashed across the sky out the open window his eyes slid closed. _Take me, God, like the sister said._ He had thought. _I ain’t good for nothing. I’m already a corpse._

     The door creaked open. Opening his eyes, he saw the shadow of a man at the foot of the bed. Arthur took in another rattling breath and gave the dripping wet figure an apathetic once over with bloodshot eyes. “Whatchya want, partner? Come to see a dyin’ man suffocate?”

     No response. The figure stood there motionless. Arthur heaved another breath, his voice a harsh bark. “If you’re here to kill me, get it over with. You’d be doin’ me a favor.”

     Another bolt of lightning flashed outside, illuminating the room for one brief, bright moment in which Arthur saw red hair and a discolored birthmark from eye to cheek.

    Arthur’s brow knit together, his hands clenched against the bedframe. The name came back with a lurch of confusion. “Francis Sinclair.”

     “Hello, Arthur. I’ve come to repay you.”

    That was the twist that Arthur could not comprehend. Surely, he had hallucinated the whole thing…yet he had not hallucinated meeting the man, searching for weeks for rock carvings and finding out that his employer was suddenly much younger than before. He felt crazy for it, but there was no other explanation. Sinclair’s remedy had worked and now he felt both fiercely grateful for his life and crushed under the weight of finding some new path for himself, robbed of the ease of dying. Feeling like some poor lunatic even at the memory of that strange night from long ago, he passed a hand over his eyes wearily.

Laying back onto the bedroll, he stared up onto the reflected shadows of the fire on the canvas and took in a deep breath. The air flowed easily into his lungs, passed back outward hardly without a sound into the night.

As sleep steadily overtook him, he found himself musing over Charlotte’s long hair falling over her shoulder, and down her back…

 


	6. Bounty Hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Now I’m gonna give you one more chance to tell me where the bastard went.”
> 
> “Before what?”
> 
> Something in one of the voices caught his ear and Arthur went for the door. As he burst in, those inside froze and every eye swung to him. A few men sat in the corner, hunched over their mugs as they watched the spectacle of a wiry looking man and a woman in spurs and an overcoat argue at the bar. Even with her back turned to him, Arthur knew Sadie Adler’s voice. As she turned with the rest to eyeball him suspiciously, they met each other’s eyes and a momentary look of shock passed over her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay in updating this story. Christmas break was filled with lots of traveling and no time to type.

Butcher’s Creek lay unchanged. As the morning sun rose it brought with it a gray, ethereal light. The breeze stirred the hanging bones and long dead animals from the sacrificial platform at the edge of the town, making the smell of death hang strongly in the air. Arthur’s black gelding snorted at the smell, began to nicker and prance off the road. Arthur tightened the reins in his hands, leaning down over the horse’s neck to murmur comfort.

    Dismounting, he led the horse to a run-down fence and hitched it there. He started down toward the buildings and saw a venomous look in the window of the first shack he came across.  Arthur caught the shrunken looking woman’s scrutinizing glare, a scowl across her puckered face. He met her eye for a half-second before setting off toward the center of the shanties. He came to the old two-story cabin that he had once brought a sick Lemuel to and paused at the door.

   He knocked twice, preparing himself for whatever odd encounter was surely to follow.

    The door opened a crack. A long, crooked nose and a gray bearded face emerged from within, which Arthur immediately knew. The old man peered at him with squinted eyes, which upon recognizing him widened briefly before the door slammed shut. 

    Muttering under his breath, Arthur pounded again on the door.

    “We don’t take to strangers! Git out—”

     “Ain’t no stranger, Obediah Hinton,” Arthur shouted back. “Already forgot the feller that chased off them demons and found out about the mine for ya?”

    The door opened again. “No, no, no—done _enough_ around here.”

     Arthur’s hand shot out and gripped the door, keeping the the old man from from slamming it shut. “Now I ain’t come for nothing. Just some _advice_ is all. I need to find the Murfrees.”

    Obediah wrenched the door open, pulling Arthur with it half a step forward.

    “Fool, screamin’ that name out loud. Best come inside,” he muttered, his eyes darting to the other houses. “Talk fast now.”

     Arthur slipped inside. The cabin had a table and a hearth, with a straw mattress in the corner, empty cans lying on the floor and a whole rabbit lying on the table. Obediah pulled the rabbit aside by its ears, sitting down at the table. “Business with that Murfree Brood is on’y trouble, mister.”

    Arthur sat across from him. “I _know._ I just gotta _find_ them. Surely you know where they’re holed up, now.”

    Obediah leaned forward. “Ain’t supp’sed to talk on ‘em.”

    “Tell me, an’ I’m gone.”

     Obediah squinted at him, as if trying to find the deception in his words. “Always around, on the roads, the paths, and North, in the old place.”

     “The caves?”

      “Beaver Holler, yep.”

       _That damn place_. Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. “How many of them?”

     Obediah frowned. “Not like before…they’s were gone for months. We had some peace. Then they returned to them caves and somethan’ dark came back to us.” He shuddered. “Seen posters up in town—government wants ‘em dead, eight men. They’s a price on their heads.”

    “Eight men.” Arthur leaned forward. “Come with me, friend. Let’s end this. Butcher’s Creek could be free of them if you all stood against those bastards.”

     That produced an unholy twitch in Obediah’s eye, and he shook his head hard. “No, no, no—I let ya in for words, an’ nothin’ else. Best git out, best git out.”

    Arthur sighed. “Listen…I’m a dullard, but even I can see that one man against all them ain’t long for this world. Now you’re a big man here, you make decisions for the others. You help all the rest stay safe, protected. If just a couple of you boys came with me, we could get rid of all your problems with the Murfree Brood. You could be free of ‘em.”

    “Can’t help, can’t help,” was the muttered reply. Obediah’s fingers twitched. With a jerk of his hand, he pulled a knife from his belt and abruptly yanked the dead rabbit nearer to him and brought the knife up. Arthur reacted accordingly, his hand moving to his holster. The knife came down onto the table and the rabbit with a loud thump. Unceremoniously, he handed Arthur the now severed rabbit’s foot.

    Arthur took it confusedly.

    “Can’t help ya. We ain’t no fighters. But _this_ could help, keep the darkness away.”

     Arthur scowled at the gift. He pushed his chair back, rising to his feet. “Well, I’ll be on my way, then.” At the door, he paused and looked back at the old man at the table. He put the rabbit’s foot at his vest pocket, tapping it down with his finger. “Thanks for the luck.”

He gladly left Butcher’s Creek, setting out straight for Van Horn. If they were back at Beaver’s Hollow, then he would need more firepower than his sole rifle.

________________________________________________

Van Horn still stank of salt water, urine and horse shit. The sea crashed violently against the rocks on the shore, sending a fine mist of sea spray down onto the dock with each wave.

     Arthur hitched the horse, taking a moment to pretend to tighten the cinch strap on the saddle while he eyed the mostly deserted street. It was too cold for most folks to be out, and Arthur was glad of it. Patting the horse’s neck, he started off down the dock. Keeping close to the buildings, he tried in vain to avoid the cold sprays of ocean that had iced over the wood beneath his boots. Thoroughly chilled, he closed the door behind him. After a brief exchange with the fence, he left out the back way, his satchel bulging at his hip.

     He patted his gelding’s side lightly as he approached. Removing a rolled bundle of cloth from the satchel, he packed it carefully into a saddlebag and then ran his fingers over the horse’s brow. “Well, boy, I think there’s time for a quick drink before we go risk our necks.” The horse leaned into his hand, huffing out a heavy breath through its nostrils. “Wait here, then, if that’s how you feel about it.”

     Nearing the saloon, a loud ruckus caught his attention from the street and Arthur stepped up to the walkway to better hear the voices shouting inside.

     “ _Ain’t_ no Billy Dillon here, like I told y—”

     “Well, I sure as hell saw you and him talkin’ down at the docks and if you deny it you’ll be standin’ in the way of the law.”

     “Law,” the voice scoffed. “No trouser wearin’ bitch can tell me she’s with the law.”

    Arthur reached the window and looked inside. The glass blurred the forms of the few people inside.

    “Then maybe you’d believe that coward Billy Dillon gone robbed from me an’ my husband and we’re helpin’ the no-good sheriff over in Valentine to bring him to justice. Now I’m gonna give you _one_ more chance to tell me where the bastard went.”

    “Before _what_?”

      Something in one of the voices caught his ear and Arthur went for the door. As he burst in, those inside froze and every eye swung to him. A few men sat in the corner, hunched over their mugs as they watched the spectacle of a wiry looking man and a woman in spurs and an overcoat argue at the bar. Even with her back turned to him, Arthur knew Sadie Adler’s voice. As she turned with the rest to eyeball him suspiciously, they met each other’s eyes and a momentary look of shock passed over her face before she swung her attention back to the man she was interrogating.

    “Woman, I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for you,” Arthur announced, sighing frustratedly. He sauntered forward, his thumbs hooked over his belt.

    The man turned halfway toward him, shooting Sadie a hard glare.

     “Now, mister,” Arthur said, “my wife’s like a hound dog when she wants something. Nothin’ in hell could throw her from the trail. Like she said, this feller stole property from us. It’s our right to try an’ get it back. You got a choice between things stayin’ easy-like or takin’ a hard turn into a world of hurt. What’s it gonna be?”

    Sadie’s hand rested on the pistol at her side, her fingers twitching, as she eyed her opponent down. Arthur stepped nearer to her, still blocking the path to the door. The man’s eyes flickered from Sadie’s hand to Arthur before he dove to the side, crashing into a table before bursting out the side door to the alley beyond. Sadie cursed as he brushed past her, drawing the pistol and taking chase. Only ten paces behind the object of her rage, she raised her gun to the fleeing man and pulled back the hammer. Before she could shoot, the man reached the corner of the saloon and was slammed into by Arthur, taking him straight into the snow bank. They struggled for a moment, the man landing a quick blow into the side of Arthur’s head. Arthur rolled on top of him and pinned him down, bringing his fist down hard into the man’s face, drawing blood from his nose and a strangled yelp from his throat.

    Sadie raised her pistol barrel to the sky, standing at the ready. “Now where’s Billy Dillon?”

    The man spat into Arthur’s face, free running blood from his nostrils mixing with his saliva. Rage and fear flashed through Arthur as he remembered Thomas Downes coughing blood and spit into his face nearly three years ago, and he struck the man again for it before smearing the substance across face with his sleeve. “ _Answer the lady,_ dammit!”

    “He knew you was chasin’ him,” the man panted. “Saw you this mornin’ and took the road going south. There’s some ol’ shack out that way, one day’s ride from here. Prolly’ll hole up there. That’s all I know! Tell your dog to let me go, I ain’t done no crime myself to warrant this beating—”

    “Shut up,” Arthur growled, still pinning him to the ground.

    “Let him go, honey,” Sadie said slowly. She nodded firmly to Arthur, who disgustedly got up and kicked at the man as he scrambled to his feet.

    As soon as he was gone, Sadie reset the hammer and holstered the pistol. Arthur spat and wiped a handful of snow over his face, paranoia flooding him like a busted delta. Sadie reached for him arm, looking into his face with something close to disbelief.

    “Arthur Morgan.”

    He nodded to her. “Sadie Adler.”

    “ _Look_ at you—glowin’ with health. Last I saw you, I didn’t think I’d ever see ya again.” She seemed to suddenly remember where they were. Her expression tightened. “Come on—best if we don’t stick around here after that beatin’ you gave that weasel. Follow me outta town for a spell?”

    “Sure,” he replied. They stole out of the alley toward Sadie’s horse. Arthur whistled, his black gelding trotting toward him at his call.  Mounting up, they left Van Horn behind them at a quick pace, heading southwest into the woods.

    Covered by trees, Sadie brought her horse to a sudden stop and dismounted. Arthur followed, hitching his gelding to a tree trunk.

    Sadie surprised him with a rough embrace, a sharp laugh escaping her. Arthur wrapped his arms around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. She stepped back from him, admiring him with a glint to her eye. “You bastard, how long’ve you been around here? I can’t believe it, as I live and breath—I really thought ya dead. You would’ve, too, if you had seen yourself.”

    He smirked at her solemnly. “Nearly was.”

    “Come on, how’ve you been getting’ by all these years?”

    “Well enough. Better, once I got back to some mountains. Looks like you’ve been doin’ okay for yourself, with fancy duds like that. Taken to bounty hunting, huh?”     

    “It pays well enough. Most folk don’t put up as much of a fuss with givin’ information out as that feller did back there. That husband bullshit usually gets people less suspicious when someone gives me any lip about bein’ a woman. But it sure helped when you came bustin’ in—it’s good to have another set of hands to get people talkin’.” She smiled at him and sat down on a log. “Hiding out somewhere near?”

        “Been up near Willard’s Rest, don’t know for how much longer.” 

     She stared at him intently as he talked, her eyes moving over his face to how he held himself as if a phantom were sitting before her. “You look well. Arthur. You really did look like death last I saw you. It’s…” she frowned. “It’s _surprisin’_ , to see you lookin’ so well. What happened to you after Charles and I got you to the Wapiti?”  

    He vaguely remembered their farewell, with him lying on his side wheezing as she knelt over him. Taking off his hat, he kicked snow from the half-rotted log and sat down beside her. “It’s a long-winded story.”

     “Better start now, then.”

     He settled with his back against a standing tree, crossed his arms across his chest and studied a bush at his feet, deciding where to begin. “Well…I rattled around New Austin for a few months. Charles rowed me there across the lake in a fishing boat. Couldn’t even sit up while he got us across-- just laid at the bottom, too tired to move. Wandered real slow on foot. I finally found this little shack off the river. Spent my days tryin’ to rest and not cough up a lung. Started to get worse, if that was possible. Some feller told me about this place down south, a town just past the border called _Esperanza._ Said there was a Catholic mission run by nuns for lungers. I figured it was the only place left to me, seein’ as I couldn’t get by on my own anymore. So, I dragged myself across the river and into the desert again, got lost a few times before I found the town and the mission. Laid up in a little bed like a chokin’ corpse for a few months. Then…well, somethin’ changed one night. I started to get better, not right away, but slow. It was like wakin’ up from a nightmare. I could breath again. After about a year passed, I got some freedom back." 

     She let out an admiring whistle. “That dry climate must’ve done you some real good, huh?”

    “Doctor said it helped."

     "Gone back to robbery?" It was stated abruptly and without judgment, but Arthur felt a flicker of annoyance at it.  

     "Naw. I’ve been wanderin’, trapping and hunting and doin’ odd jobs. Stayin’ out of towns as much as I could. Law still thinks I’m dead. Trying to keep it that way.” He looked at her hard. “Sadie, I never got the chance to thank you. You an’ Charles. Without the both of you…I would’ve rotted away long ago.”

    She shook her head. “Don’t see how you survived all of it. I don’t believe in miracles anymore, but maybe you’re my exception.”

    The old Arthur she knew would have been ready with some dry comment at such a declaration. The one who sat beside her only gave her a quiet look, as Sister Calderon’s musings of second chances and hope for all men played through his memory like a haunting voice.

    She frowned at his silence, and then nudged into him with her shoulder. “I’m truly glad to see ya. I guess you’re trapping out in these parts now, are ya?”

    “Right now, I’ve got another sort of trappin’ to attend to.” He considered her with a weary expression for a second. “Murfree Brood moved back into Beaver Hollow. They’ve been causin’ all sorts of damnable chaos around here. There’s a price on their heads now. Only about eight of them boys left, or so I've been told."

    "I know it. Seen the bounty poster. Feds are offerin' about fifty dollars per man."

     "Well, I know you’re on some other bastard’s trail right now, but Sadie…if you an’ I was to head up to Beaver’s Hollow tonight, we could take those fools by surprise. You’d have to take the bodies in—can’t risk it myself. I’m sure the government would have no problem setting my bounty out again if word ever got out that I’m still kickin’.”

    She eyed him curiously. “Going on a man-hunt ain’t what most men do, if they’s trying to lay low. Trying to make faster money than an ol’ beaver pelt would afford you?”

    “Ain’t about the money so much—though I wouldn’t turn some down.”

    “ _Ain’t about the money._ What’s it about then? Two against eight ain’t nothin’ done for pleasure…and it looks like you was about to walk into a fight with ‘em by yourself before we ran into each other.”

     “They been doin’ no end of things to some good folk. Can’t let ‘em get on like this. If someone don’t stop ‘em, it’ll never end.”

    “Become a regular champion of the people, haven’t ya?”

    He thought of Charlotte, slumped cold against a wall and a shadow passed over his brow, but he snorted at her comment. “Ain’t about heroics. Look—it’s just something I’ve gotta see done.”

    She considered his offer for a moment. When she spoke, her words came slow and deliberate. “Arthur Morgan, you followed me without question to Hangin’ Dog Ranch an’ we shot them O’Driscoll’s to hell. You helped me avenge my Jake’s blood that day.” She softened. “Ever since that last night, when everything fell to pieces and everyone scattered to the four winds, I’ve thought on ya fondly. You fought to get some of us out, but you deserved the same, Arthur. I always wished you could’ve had some better end than what you got...and it looks like you’ve got it now. So...if you need to see this through, then I’ll stand by your side.”

     “You’re a good woman, Sadie Adler.”

    Sadie let out an exasperated breath at the unexpected praise. “I think facin’ death’s made you sentimental, Morgan. Had enough of that for today—an’ old friend showin’ up like some friendly phantom, beatin’ the hell out of some greasy feller for me. Still can’t wrap my head around it.” She pushed her hat back to rest high on her head. “Now tell me the plan, and let’s get some Murfree boys.”

     “What about this Billy Dillon of yours?”

     “He’ll just have to wait.”


	7. Blood and Recovered Billfolds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Arthur, we need to get out of here.”  
>   
> If he heard her, he didn’t show that he had. Sadie glared at his back as he walked away. “Damn it, Morgan,” she sighed, following him. “What are we searchin’ for?” she asked.  
>   
> “Money.”  
>   
> “The damn Blackwater money is gone, Arthur."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An attempt at an action-based chapter. Hopefully it's still interesting. Thanks for all of your comments and feedback so far! I'm really enjoying writing this.

Moonlight lit his path.

     Arthur stole along the dark trail, rolling his weight from heel to toe like Charles had once taught him. The snow was still somewhat fresh and powdery, and he sank quietly with each step, moving slowly. Two cattleman revolvers were holstered at each hip, a scoped rifle slung across his back, his satchel bulging with the goods from Van Horn. Reaching the meeting place, he stopped in the shadow of a tall tree and scanned the rustling branches, the night making every stump and rock look like a man lurking in the dark. He pulled out a silver chained pocket watch from his breast pocket and clicked in the latch. Fifteen minutes to three in the morning.

     There were light footsteps beside him. Arthur turned his head slowly toward the sound, saw Sadie’s form stop five paces away.

     “Arthur.”

     “Sadie,” he murmured, tipping his hat up in an almost imperceptible greeting.

     “Strange to be back here. It’s like I can still hear everyone’s voices in the trees.”

     Arthur cast a doleful look around as she said it and felt a pang of old anger and regret. “For sure.” Casting out such thoughts, his voice became brisk. “You bring the wagon?”

     “Sure did. It’s about a quarter-mile from here, left it hidden between some old oaks.”

     “Good.”  He knelt, dug in his satchel and carefully lifted the cloth-covered bundle, laying it down slowly into the snow. He unrolled the cloth, laying the twelve sticks of dynamite out.

     Her voice low as to not have it carry, Sadie smirked at Arthur in the darkness. “Must’ve cost ya a pretty penny, but I like your style, Morgan.”

     “Like you said, two against eight ain’t betting odds. Needed something to tip the scales.” He gathered three sticks into a bundle, produced some cord from the satchel and began to bind them together. “Now, like we agreed on, I’m gonna get low down in them trees above the clearing—above where Pearson’s old wagon was. It should be close enough to see the dynamite where we plant it at the cave entrance. You’ll sneak to the top, to that ol’ hidden entrance in the caves. Don’t know if that old ladder will still be there or not. If it ain’t, just light the dynamite and chuck in into the caves below. If it is, try an’ creep down there before you throw it in, so’s to toss it right into some of ‘em so that they’ll be hit by the blast. I’m hopin’ they’s all asleep and the explosion will throw ‘em into a frenzy. With any luck, the dynamite will do most of the work for us. After that, make sure they can’t escape from that hidden passage out and join me down below. We’ll try to stay in the shadows, seein’ as we’re outmanned.”

    “Outmanned, sure, but I figure we’ve got more brains between the two of us then all of them put together.”

    “I surely hope so. I’ll try to wait for your first blast to start shooting…unless one of the bastards catches on before then.” He handed her two of the bundles and a book of matches.

     “Alright,” she said. “Let’s move down closer an’ see if there’s anyone keepin’ watch.”

     They went slowly westward, finally reaching the rise of trees that surrounded Beaver Hollow. Nearing the break in the trees, they crouched and inched forward. The wind was picking up, causing a good cover in noise for them as the breeze whipped branches together overhead. They finally dropped to their bellies and lay side by side in the shadows of the brush, looking down over the clearing.

    The moonlight was bright enough to see there were no men standing watch out by the cave entrance. They lay in silence, watching for any movement.

     In front of the cave, a gruesome melding of animal and human bones had been set up like a warning, with a fresh deer ribcage attached to a cow skull atop it. Before that, even covered by snow, Arthur could see some old wreckage from their camp. An old wagon’s charred remains—the medical wagon—lay in a layer of white, like a forgotten skeleton. Arthur wondered where his old things had gotten to, the old photographs and the horseshoe. At least John had the important things, his father's hat and the old journal. Had he known that he would survive that day, maybe he would have kept them. But better John than someone else. The moments ticked on, both Arthur and Sadie lay looking over the old clearing, remembering more bad than good.

    “We gonna have to set the dynamite so you can see it through the scope,” Sadie murmured, breaking the remorseful silence that had fallen between them. “Looks like there’s enough fresh tracks down there so that we don’t have to worry on settin’ down our own.”

    Arthur nodded. “Let’s go.”

    They approached from above, staying in the trees and keeping to the shadows. Cutting down along the rock of the cave opening, Sadie drew her knife and set it between clenched teeth as they passed under the gruesome bone effigy, a stench rising from it powerfully. They worked quickly, setting a bundle each somewhat obviously into the open crags along the entrance. Having set their trap, they stole back out into the tree cover.

     Looking back at Arthur, Sadie jerked her head up toward the rocks and Arthur nodded to her once. Like a shadow, she was suddenly gone. Arthur returned to his own place, settling himself down into the snow and setting his bolt-action rifle before him. He hurriedly pushed armfuls of snow to form a rest for the gun, packing it down with his gloved palm so the weapon would not sink in the snow. He set a box of ammunition at his elbow and loaded several shells into the rifle, sliding the bolt into place and running his trigger finger along the trigger cover ightly in preparation of what would come next.

     The blasts from the dynamite would be loud and his rifle was not quiet, either. But the nearest town was Butcher’s Creek, and Arthur felt certain that they would have no trouble from them, even should the blasts be heard. He practiced finding the red dynamite cases, one at either side of the narrow entrance.

     The minutes ticked by. Arthur’s body heat began to melt the snow he lay on, causing his pants and blue coat to get wet and a chill to set upon him. His eyes stayed fixed at the cave entrance, his ears straining for any sound above the wind.

     The first blast went off. Arthur listened intently if gunshots accompanied it, meaning that Sadie had been spotted and that he may have to run cover fire for her. But after the blast, all was silent for a long moment… before another blast. Arthur rested his face into the gun stock, readying himself.

    There was a hasty blur of movement from within the cave, but no one rushed out, as he had hoped they would. Suddenly gunfire began to sound off, still distant, as if from the back of the caves.

     “ _Damn it_ ,” Arthur hissed.

    More seconds dragged past. Then, suddenly – the first man rushed from the cave alone. Arthur found him in the scope and squeezed off the first shot. He fell with a strangled cry, clutching at his chest as he thrashed in the snow. From behind him, three more men charged out. Arthur saw the collective flicker of movement before their feet reached the snow and fired into the dynamite.

     The blast caught the lead man squarely and he staggered in confusion, the other two caught off guard and clawing at their ears. The blast should have deafened them.  Firing again, Arthur saw the leader fall and he shot somewhat hastily at the second, only clipping him.

     Ejecting the empty shell, Arthur loaded five more and slid the top bullet into the chamber with the bolt as the two living men below searched desperately for his location. He fired at the uninjured one, who dove behind some rocks at the last second. The bullet ricocheted off the stone and Arthur cursed as the third man joined the other in cover.

     They could see where he lay, each shot obvious in the dark. He rolled to his back with the rifle in his hands and crouched with his back to a tree. Gunfire rained around him, pinning him down. After the shots had slowed, Arthur stuck the rifle barrel around the tree and raised it quickly, only to lean back again when more bullets started to fly. _Losin’ my touch,_ he thought, letting his breath out slowly to slow his thoughts. Rolling to the side, he skidded into some thicker tree cover. The shots did not follow him but continued to land into the same snow bank.

     Arthur rose to a knee and rested his rifle barrel across a low branch. As he lined up the crosshairs in his scope with one of their bobbing heads he caught more movement from the cave and swung his rifle up to the last bunch of dynamite. He fired, missing the small target. Racking another shell in, he aimed again and this time the blast shot out in a massive white cloud, the blast affecting the two new Murfrees who sprinted from the cave. One was caught in the midst of smoke and caught the blast directly, his body thrown violently down into the snow. “That makes three,” Arthur said aloud. Shots began to land around him, but the thick branches that covered his silhouette kept most from getting close.

     Arthur shot again, the bullet landing dead center within one’s head. The impact of the bullet striking his skull jerked his head back as blood sprayed out the exit wound, reddening the rock behind him. Aiming for another, Arthur watched his intended target collapse suddenly as Sadie joined the fight. Flanking them, she shot down one more as they scrambled away from her shots.

     “Six,” Arthur murmured. “Where’s those last sons of bitches?”

     He moved back to his original position, thinking that maybe Sadie had killed them inside the caves from above. He scanned the clearing, watching again. Quick footsteps sounded on his right, moving lightly. Arthur pulled his pistol out, looking out into the darkness to his right.

    “Only me!” Sadie whispered. She got behind the tree that he lay prone beside. “I got three of ‘em. How many’re left?”

     “Should be two, if the feds were right about their numbers.”

     “Could be in the cave still. Only got one of the bastards inside. Cover me and I’ll get to the cave opening, then I’ll watch so’s you can join me and we’ll smoke ‘em out.”

    “We’ve got the high ground here. If we move, we’re givin’ them the advantage.”

    “I disagree,” she said. “If we rush ‘em now we don’t give ‘em time to regroup.”

    Arthur’s breath steamed out into the air as he exhaled. “Ok. Move fast and I’ll watch your back.”

     She stepped over his legs and kept to the foliage, moving fast now. Once she was behind cover near the cave he reloaded again and sprinted down into the clearing, getting on the other side of the cave entrance. Slinging his rifle over his back, he drew the pistols and kicked at a body that lay at his feet, checking for life.

    Sadie rushed in head first, disappearing into the cave. Arthur followed, watching her lack of regard for her own life as she charged ahead of him.

     Arthur rounded the corner. As he did, a sudden flash of a knife passed in front of Arthur’s vision and sliced into his forehead. A heavy man barreled into him and knocked him to his back. Arthur shot as he fell, the bullet missing his attacker. The Murfree held his neck with one hand and raised a knife with the other. Arthur’s left hand shot up in defense, gripped the wrist and kept the knife from coming down. Struggling, Arthur got one good swing in with his free hand and then felt for the gun. His fingers brushed against the stock as the Murfree’s fist tightened over his windpipe. Choking, Arthur gripped the pistol and raised the barrel up, firing haphazardly as his vision began to darken. He felt the man’s body jerk and stiffen, heard the knife clatter on the stone close to his ear and then struggled against the weight that fell completely on top of him.

    Arthur gasped, rolling out from under the dead man’s bulk and pushing the body aside. He touched his brow, looked down at his hand and saw blood from the cut above his eyebrow. Hearing gunfire from down below, he picked up his fallen pistols, rushing now to find Sadie. He passed by a corral of sorts, made with old wood planks nailed into rail road ties, saw two horses within and hoped one was Charlotte’s.

    Running now, when he found her at the back of the cave, she stood breathing hard, surrounded by four corpses.

     “That all of ‘em?” he asked, turning abruptly to look behind.

     “How the hell are either of us supposed to know? We killed more than eight!”

    “I noticed. Hey—look there, that old wagon over there.”

    “What about it?”

    “That’s the spot Abigail told us about before you an’ her rode off to get Jack. Think Dutch left the money with all them Pinkertons runnin’ around?”

    Sadie frowned. “It’s been nearly three years, Arthur. Dutch survived that night. Either he got it or somebody else did since then.”

    “Worth takin’ a look.”

     Arthur threw aside old crates, pried open the heavy ones and crawled beneath the wagon. His voice was muffled but rang with disgust. “It’s gone.”

     “Hurry up. Could be more of ‘em and I ain’t gonna die in Beaver’s Hollow.”

     Arthur emerged, covered in fine dust. “Had to look. Come on—let’s get these corpses loaded. We’re gonna need that wagon.”

    “I’ll go get it. You alright here?”

     He nodded. “I’ll keep an eye out for ‘em.”

     As Sadie left, Arthur remembered what he had come for. Looting each of the bodies within the cave, he only found thirty dollars and a stolen watch between them. He did not imagine that Charlotte had lost some grand sum, but thirty dollars was not enough to return to her. He then searched the bodies outside, dragging them together into a pile for when Sadie returned. One man was hardly recognizable as a man, the dynamite blast having disfigured him and removed an arm.

    Wiping bloodied hands over his dark coat, he looked back to the cave. “Where’s that damn money?” he muttered. He searched piles of stolen goods and possessions, no doubt stripped off of victims. Clothes, rings, belt buckles, boots, wagon wheels, but no billfolds. Gathering the rings and belt buckles, he let them clatter together into his satchel. He then began to drag the remaining corpses to the cave entrance, pausing to watch Sadie approach in the wagon.

     Sadie urged a skittish horse on as it pulled their wagon forward through the snow. She jumped down, looking irritated. “Wagons are as good as useless in these drifts. Gonna be damn hard to make it out of here.”

    Arthur grunted in agreement. They loaded the bodies into the wagon, covering the grisly sight with a canvas to keep suspicion away. Arthur then fetched the two horses from within the caves, securing their reins to the back of the wagon.

    “Takin’ everything with us, huh?” Sadie commented.

    “Promised someone I’d return a stolen horse. It’s got to be one of these.”

     She peered at him sharply. “Promised who?”

     “Come on. There's something else I need to find.”

    “Arthur, we need to get _out_ of here.”

     If he heard her, he didn’t show that he had. She glared at his back as he walked briskly away. “Damn it, Morgan,” she sighed, following him.

    “What are we searchin’ for?” she asked.

    “Money.”

    “The damn Blackwater money is _gone_ , Arthur—”

    “Ain’t lookin’ for that. Any money. Already searched the corpses. Just look for a billfold.”

     “Awfully specific,” she muttered. Searching away from him, she found a little lockbox poking out from a pile of rusty cutlery. She knocked the old spoons aside, took out her knife and popped the weak lid open. Whistling in surprise, she ran her hands over the treasure inside—a bag of gold nuggets and a thick wad of loose bills. “Arthur! Found your cash. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

     They climbed up onto the wagon. Sadie handed Arthur the lockbox and flicked the reins. He looked through its contents quickly then slipped the box under his feet. “We’ll split the gold,” he said, “the money’s goin’ somewhere else.”

     Sadie refrained from commenting.

     The wagon rolled forward slowly, then lurched as Sadie urged the horse on faster. Blood seeped around the canvas covered bodies and pooled, dripping through the wagon boards and leaving a crimson trail behind the wagon. The wagon passed a copse of trees. Arthur whistled. His black gelding came trotting out from the trees, following the wagon.

     Digging in the bag beside her, Sadie pulled out a bottle of whiskey. She pulled the cork out with her teeth and took a chug before handing it wordlessly to Arthur.

     Arthur took a drink. “Haven’t killed a man in a long time. Meant to leave that behind me.”

     “Those weren’t men. Like you said, they’ve done a lot of wrongs and no lawman was fool enough to go after ‘em. Did folks around here a favor. That gold sure helps as recompense for our services, too.” She noticed the now dried blood on his brow. “I see you caught a knife,” she said.

     He took another long swig. “Could’ve been worse.”

     “Surely could’ve. We sure got the drop on those whelps."

     "And to think I nearly ran up here alone."

     "It was a pleasure partnering up, Mr. Morgan,” Sadie chuckled.

     “It’s Mr. Carter, now. I’m surprised you’re still goin’ by your name.”

     “Nobody knows little Sadie Adler from the next person on the street. Only ran with you all for that short while.”

     “They will now, as the bounty hunter who brought in twelve bounties at once.”

     “We sure cleaned them boys out. Billfolds, horses and all.” She threw him a sidelong look. “Who’re we returning ‘em too?”

     “Friend of mine. Would’ve been hard pressed without them. No need to come along--I'll see to this, you see to collecting your reward." 

     She ignored that. “Just tell me which road to take.”

     “You’ve got bounties knockin’ around in the back and you want to trail me up to return a horse?”

     “Call it fatal curiosity. 'Sides, the boys in the wagon here ain't goin' nowhere.”

     "Maybe I don't want you along." 

     "All this duckin' around the subject is only making this more interestin'." She looked over to Arthur, who stared at her with wearied resignation. 

     “Like I told that feller in the bar, Mrs. Adler, you’re like an old hound dog on the trail.”

"I don't have too many people left in this world, Arthur. Sorry if I desire to pass more time in your company." 

Arthur huffed out a breath. “Take this road northeast, up toward Willard’s Rest.” 

 

    

     

  


	8. Makings of a Good Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She caught the rabbit’s foot. Getting a good look at it, she let out a sharp laugh. “He’ll be the lucky one if he snakes away again.” Picking up the reins, she glanced back up to Charlotte’s silhouette on the porch, outlined by the lamplight flickering warmly in the window. She looked at him thoughtfully, seeing more of herself in him than she ever had before. “Arthur, a good woman like that wouldn’t be puttin’ up with some no-account man in her house. So, don’t be a fool and forget to live.”

  The weather turned for the worse once more. Snow fell, obscuring the path and turning the wind into icy blasts. They stopped talking, exhaustion, hunger and cold taking over their thoughts. They drove in turns, waiting until the other’s hands had frozen over before passing it once more between them. Fortunately, the woods began to break and they came out onto the main road, the wagon moving on as slow as molasses over the whiteout before them.

      Arthur had dozed, his foot propped up against the wagon’s front board to steady himself against the jostling of the road. Having reached Willard’s Rest, Sadie thumped him in the shoulder to wake him up as the wagon rumbled over the railroad tracks. Arthur jolted awake, ran a hand over his weary eyes and recognized the trail before them, the sound of the falls loud and distinct. He reached inside his coat and into the breast pocket on the vest he wore, searching for the pocket watch. As he pulled it out, the rabbit’s foot came out with it. Arthur shook his head at the talisman and slipped it back, taking a look at the watch face.

    “Fifteen minutes to sunrise.”

     Sadie stared blearily ahead, exhausted from the night’s work. She handed over the reins to him and pulled her arms across her chest. “Long night,” she said.

    “You could’ve been halfway to Valentine by now, restin’ by a fire,” Arthur chided. “Instead you’re here sufferin’ with me, all for your curiosity.”

    “Shut up and drive,” she muttered, pulling her coat collar up over her ears.

    Arthur flicked the reins over the tired horse’s back and glanced back at the three horses behind the wagon, their heads hanging low. They would need to be relieved of tack, dried off and fed before anything else was done.

     As they neared the bend in the road, Arthur felt a rising sense of apprehension and happiness mixing in his gut. He had done what he set off to do, and despite the lives he had taken, it had been done in justice. Now he would return Charlotte’s possessions. What came after that, he did not yet know. He realized his time at Willard’s Rest was swiftly coming to an end. It was odd to him that the thought of leaving left him feeling somewhat hollow. When he tried to brush such sentiments off, they only remained with him, an unresolved issue beating forcefully at the foremost of his thoughts: Charlotte. He felt like he was running out of time with her and it left him with a gnawing feeling. 

     But something in Charlotte made her seem far and unattainable to him…and he felt like his presence was a stain on her path. She only ever treated him as a fellow pilgrim on a righteous road, but he suspected that should she ever learn of his life before that she would cast him out. Ever since he had met her, she had called him a good man. What was more, she truly seemed to believe it... and for the first time in his life, he felt like perhaps he truly could be. Yet, all of Calderon’s talk on second chances would be in vain if he could not find a way to leave old ways behind him. Killing the Murfrees had been necessary, but he couldn’t deny that there was a part of him that had taken deep pleasure in it. Going in, doing a job like that was familiar, and he was an old hand at it. No honest labor could beat the immediate pay-out or the exhilaration of a fight. Maybe he wasn’t built for honest work. None of the people in his life seemed to be. Dutch and Hosea were grifters and robbers before they started with banks and other jobs. His own father, Lyle Morgan, couldn’t rub two nickels together until he went out stealing or cattle rustling.

     Arthur frowned, suddenly lost in dark thoughts. If he couldn’t make something new of himself, what was left to him but turn back to crime? He was nearly thirty-eight years old and had nothing to show for all his years of life except some scars. He had promised his mother that he wouldn’t become his father. But such promises were forgotten as soon as she was gone, taken by a fever when Arthur was young. Then it was only his father there, an angry presence in the house. Arthur had hated him for all the drunk beatings and gave Lyle hell in return as the years passed. After one of his father’s jobs gone wrong, Arthur had stood before a dim jail cell, his father reaching through the bars and sitting his old hat down onto Arthur’s head, saying, _“Guess you’re on your own now, boy.”_ He vividly remembered standing in a dusty street as the sheriff pushed his father up the gallows steps, condemned to death for larceny. The noose around his neck, Lyle looked his son blankly in the eye as the rope was tightened. Arthur had stared right back, the hot sun had shining in his eyes even as he forced them open to watch the trapdoor beneath his father’s feet fall and his body lurch down, caught sickeningly by the rope beneath his jaw. As tough as iron even in death, the fall had not snapped his neck and he hung there, suffocating, as the people in the street murmured. As long ago as it was, it was etched into Arthur’s memory. Hard years would pass and try as he had to ignore Lyle Morgan’s footsteps, he had found himself matching nearly each one. However, unlike his father, he had lived past thirty-five, was not a slave to whiskey and had somehow avoided the hangman’s noose.

     He liked to think there was something different inside him, some other purpose that could drive him. Mary's farewell letter still hung with him in his memory.  _I cannot live like that,_  she had written, _and it seems you cannot live any other way._ Well, he was tired, now. Tired of running, tired of being caught between two ideals. Perhaps it was time to let the giant die. 

    The tired horse balked at the slight hill before the cabin. Arthur hopped down off the wagon and took the halter, leading it forward and murmuring encouragement. As they stopped before the cabin, Arthur saw that frost covered the cabin windows, but smoke still drifted up from the chimney. Snow crunched beneath their feet as Sadie began to unhitch the horses and lead them into the horse shed. Arthur followed, leading the remaining two and began to swiftly brush the snow from their backs and feet. Sadie removed the saddles from the other two, hefting them onto the railing. Arthur hauled a hay bale over to them, busting it up and spreading it before the four tired animals.

     “Come inside when you’re done,” Arthur said. “Door bolts from the outside, so the horses will be out of the wind.”

    “You talk like this was your place.”

    “Ain’t mine, and you're welcome to stay here with the horses if you like.”

    Sadie shook her head. “Alright, alright.”   

    Arthur walked stiffly to the wagon, rubbing his hands together. He secured the canvas over the bodies, grimly thankful for the cold weather that would preserve them. He then retrieved the lockbox, pocketing the bag of gold and thumbing quickly through the bills. There was over three hundred dollars within. Arthur was certain that not all of it had been Charlotte’s and that several unfortunate souls had unwillingly contributed to the fund. But he would give it all to her, nonetheless. Better the money go to her than someone else, and better for Sadie to take half the gold and the full bounty. He would keep the other half of the gold, plus the rings and belt buckles and make his return to Van Horn to sell them.

   Lockbox in hand, Arthur stepped up to the porch and slowly opened the cabin door. “Charlotte?” he called.

    He heard a rush of quiet footsteps and as the door swung open there was Charlotte, already dressed, leaning heavily against the table, her rifle and a rucksack at her elbow, her face strained.

    He entered quickly, concerned.

    “I’m glad it’s you,” she said.

    “You alright?”

    “I was trying to pack some provisions,” she said, “and walk down to the next homestead. My leg is on fire.”

    Arthur stepped closer to her, reached out to touch her feverish brow. Her forehead seemed to burn all the more for how cold his fingers were. “Sit down.”

    She lowered herself down into a chair and he knelt in front of her. He held her leg up for her, resting it over his knee. She winced hard as his fingertips grazed the inflamed flesh near the wound on her calf, and her grip on his shoulder tightened. The wound was sealed and still healing from the cauterization but was now swollen and steaked with red.

    “It’s infected,” she said. “I just can’t get at it enough to lance it properly.”

    “Never drained a wound before myself, but I’ve seen it done. I’ll need better light.”

    “There’s another lantern on the mantel.” He began to stand up. She caught his forearm in a light touch. “I’m truly glad to see you returned. After a day had passed, I began to fear the worst. Did you get caught out in the storm last night?”

     “Traveled through it some.”

    She saw the weariness in his face. “Perhaps you’d better sit down yourself. My leg can wait.”

    He smiled somberly at her. “Brought your horse back…two of ‘em, so odds are that one is yours, at the least. Never did ask you what it looked like.”

    “She’s an old brown work horse, probably worth less than ten dollars for how many teeth she’s missing,” Charlotte replied.

    “Consider her returned home, then. Found the money, too.” He slid the lockbox over to her. “ _Don’t_ say it’s too much.”

    She thumbed through the cash, her discomfort at the amount obvious. “It _is_ too much.”

    Arthur nearly asserted that it was not, but the words died in his mouth. Edith Downes had once rejected his money, too, thinking of it as immorally gained. Maybe he still didn’t know much about morals. He returned to her with the lamp. “Do with it as you will. But they stole _more_ than money from you—stole your peace of mind an’ left you for dead.”

    She watched him light the lantern then rest his palms against the table. Her gaze lingered on the cut on his brow and the crusted blood around it, the layer of frost on his collar, down to the crimson stains on his coat and how haggard he looked. She knew then that he had killed those men…killed them for what they had done to her. She supposed she should fear a man with a bloodied coat, but found that she did not. _I killed some of them, as well,_ she thought, the remembrance sobering. _Cut another one across his eyes._

    “They did all of that,” she agreed quietly. For a moment they just looked at one another, as if commiserating the same hollow feeling the whole affair had left them with. Moved by sheer fondness for him, she reached out and rested her hand over his, letting the relief of his return sink in fully. He looked intently at her, her touch warm over his cold flesh, and felt the sudden desire to pull her close. 

     The front door creaked. Sadie stood there in the doorway, waiting on the threshold. “Didn’t want to barge in,” she said, her tone rather subdued from its normal volume.

    Charlotte’s hand slipped back into her lap. “Who are you?”

    “This is Sadie Adler,” Arthur said. “Known her for a long time. Helped me get back here alive. She’s workin’ with the law down in Valentine.”

    “Other places, too,” Sadie supplied.

   “Well, come in out of the cold,” Charlotte said, her surprise at the visitor overshadowed by the warmth in her tone.

    Sadie entered stomping the last of the snow from her boots, then closed the door behind her.

    “This woman was insistent on meetin’ you, Charlotte,” Arthur said, his dry tone not disapproving.

    “Well, I’m afraid you won’t get any usual hospitality,” Charlotte said, giving Sadie a weary smile. “This leg of mine won’t seem to heal.”

    Sadie had seen the touch, then the lockbox of cash and the way Arthur stood there beside the dark- haired woman and she suddenly understood all of it…the insistence on going after a band of cannibals in the dead of winter, on raiding the cave, dodging her questions. “It was them Murfrees, weren’t it, who injured ya.”

    Charlotte’s eyes became cold at the name, all of her anger over her leg laid bare to Sadie. She glanced to Arthur.  “I wouldn’t have survived, had Mr. Carter not come along.”

    Sadie caught the way Arthur turned away abruptly from the conversation, only solidifying her understanding of Arthur’s motivation for the twelve bodies in the wagon outside. “Mr. Carter is surely talented at stumbling into things. Though, I’m glad he stumbled into you.”

    Arthur drew his knife and placed it at the edge of the coals in the hearth so that the flame licked over the blade. “Sadie, you still make poultices? Leg’s infected from a gunshot wound.”

    “I do, but I’m lacking ginseng or yarrow on account of the season. Got any potatoes, Charlotte?”

    “In a sack in the corner there.”

    They worked quietly, Arthur retrieving the blade and allowing it to cool on the table. He readied a pot of water over the fire to boil and retrieved a bottle of Kentucky Bourbon from Charlotte's cabinet. Sadie cut a potato into fine shreds, afterward making some spare cloth at Charlotte’s permission to destroy a bed linen. Charlotte tore the cloth into long strips alongside her, her feverish pallor and withdrawn look disconcerting Arthur greatly, his worry worn obviously on his tired face.

     Sadie ate a hasty breakfast and watched Arthur move around the sickly woman, his demeanor very unlike the crass side of him she was used to. It reminded her of the old days, when Arthur would speak to Hosea, the women or Jack, or bring someone in the camp back some silly item they had wanted. She had seen then how Arthur flourished when the others needed protection. She supposed his obvious concern could be explained wholly in that the woman clearly needed aid. But Sadie was no fool, and intuition told her that any man willing to nurse a woman with a bum leg back to health had more of a vested interest than he might like to admit.

    Finally, Charlotte sat with her leg propped up on another chair in front of the hearth, the kerosene lamp resting on the floorboards. Charlotte took her skirts and bunched them up in a knot near her knee. Arthur knelt beside her, his hands angling her leg so that the light better caught the crimson, swollen place on her calf, his touch firm.

    Charlotte sat with her eyes closed. Arthur’s tired voice broke her thoughts.

    “Ready?”

    She nodded resignedly.

    Feeling the swelling with his thumb, Arthur made a shallow, small cut along the bulge and squeezed the skin together. Clear liquid and a yellow pus oozed from the incision. Arthur caught the substances with some of the strips of cloth. He continued with another lump under her skin. Charlotte sat stoically, her eyes shut, not once making a sound. Finally,  Arthur poured the bourbon over the incisions and wrapped the wound with new cloth strips. Sadie then took his place and wrapped the poultice over the wrappings, tying it off tightly.

    Charlotte winced at the pressure but looked over their work appreciatively. “I feel as if two doctors have come to my aid.”

    “I think you’d best sleep, now,” Sadie said softly.

    “I suppose so,” Charlotte replied. Sadie helped her to her feet. “I don’t have much, but you’re welcome to whatever I have.”

    Sadie watched Arthur lend Charlotte his shoulder, then share some murmured words with her before helping her with a door. He came back, tossing the used cloths in the boiling water on the hearth and sitting down, running his hand over his eyes.

    “That’s a mighty pretty friend you’ve got there, Arthur,” she said, the usual mocking edge in her voice softened.

    Arthur made some low sound in his throat. “You can take that other room, Sadie, an’ sleep. I’ll stretch out here.”

    “I think she’s gonna heal just fine.”

     He looked at her as if he wished he could say the same, but the dry humor escaped anyhow. “Especially with that fine poultice.”

    ___________________________________

The day passed in silence, sleep enveloping the house even in the daylight hours. The sun remained hidden behind thick cloud-cover as the gray overcast deepened. It was early afternoon when Sadie awoke. She pulled on her boots and coat, then noticed the small mirror on the bedside table. Resting it against the wall, she took in her reflection with displeasure. Tugging at the plain brown ribbon that kept her braid tight, she let her hair fall forward and began to comb it out with her fingers. Taking the time to carefully bring it back into a new braid, she finally tied the ribbon back in place. She then took her fingers and pushed them beneath the hair to her scalp to loosen any undue tightness. As she did so, some long strands fell from their place and lay hanging in her face. She brushed the strands back behind her ear, where they curled together. Pleased, she stood and slowly opened the bedroom door. The curtains were closed still, the fire burning low, and she could see Arthur’s still form on the floor, dead asleep on the bedroll from his saddle. Moving carefully, she took the strips of cloth from the table and stole into Charlotte’s room.

    Charlotte lay awake. She sat up abruptly as the door opened slowly, saw it was Sadie and propped herself up on her elbows.

    “Don’t wish to intrude,” Sadie said.

    “You’re not intruding,” Charlotte replied, giving Sadie the impression that she truly meant it.

    Sadie sat down in the old chair beside the bed and presented the cloth. “Thought you might need some new bandages. Sit up and I’ll help to tie them on.”

    Charlotte pushed herself up, then leaned back against the headboard. “Wasn’t sure if you had already gone. I wanted to thank you for last night.” She let Sadie remove the old, stained dressing and secure clean ones. She took in Sadie’s clothing, the holster she wore on her hip and the quick way she had of moving. “I would ask Arthur what happened, but I feel he would brush any questions off.”

     “You know him pretty well, then.” Sadie sat down. “Well, they won’t be causin’ any trouble anymore. We found ‘em at Beaver Hollow. Took the whole night through to get back.” At Charlotte’s look, she added, “Didn’t leave none of ‘em alive to return here no more. I think Arthur wanted it so.”  

    “I suppose I shouldn’t think on it poorly. Those men…well, they were hardly men.”

    “I’ve seen ‘em do horrible things,” Sadie said. She stirred a bit in her chair. “Well, your leg don’t look none the worse for our sorry attempts at doctorin’.”

    “I’m sure that I’m far better off now. I never did see anyone chop up a potato for a remedy before.”

     “Draws out the infection. Herbs are better, but there’s no findin’ such ones during the winter. I used to make such things—poultices, remedies—for my husband. That man could barely set foot outside without nearly breakin’ his leg in a prairie dog hole or bashin’ his head on somethin’.” Sadie smiled to herself as she remembered. “Got plenty of practice with him, before…”

    Charlotte watched Sadie’s face fall. “Mine was the opposite,” Charlotte said, ending the silence. “He was a good man, but he never did any hard labor until we got here. He worked hard, though, on this home and on the land. He loved this place—especially the waterfall. He used to sit out on the porch and listen to it.”

    “That him in the picture over there?”

     “It is.”

     “How long he been gone?”

     “Nearly three years, now. We weren’t very knowledgeable, when we first moved out here. Barely made it through the first year. Spring finally came around again and we were desperately hungry. We didn't know the first thing about hunting, and we were too poor to buy many provisions. So, Cal set off trying to find something to hunt...but something found him first. A bear got a hold of him...he barely made it back here. Fell off his horse in front of the porch. He didn't make it but a short while...” she trailed off. “I should have died with him. Or gone with him, at least. Maybe things would have turned out differently.”

     They sat in silence for a moment. “Guess we got somethin’ in common. Mine was murdered, but I always felt like I could’ve changed things. Maybe that’s both folly and torture.”

    “Who murdered him?”

     “Some outlaw bastards. Shot him down right in our home, then took to doin’ whatever they pleased with me. Threw me in the cellar for three days.” She frowned, finding herself let her bravado slip to this woman she hardly knew, who listened intently and patiently. “Always will think on that horrible day. I remember when it was finally over. A lantern got smashed, took the house up in flames. Arthur was there, helped me get out. First time I met that hombre, I thought he was like the men who shot my Jake. Turned out to be a fine friend.”

       “Who is he?” Charlotte picked up one of the cloth strips and ran it through her fingers. “I feel like I could ask him a hundred questions and still not know any more about him than I do now.”  

     “He’s stubborn as a mule, but loyal to a fault…a good man, who never had much chance to show it. Been runnin’ around since he was a kid, never tied to any one place. I think he’s tired of all that. He’s a kind of secret artist, always scribblin’ away at pictures in that book of his. The rest would be for him to answer.” Her eyes crinkled warily. “Arthur was one of the men who buried my husband for me. I’ll always be grateful to him for that.”

     “He found me, too, out there beside Cal’s grave. I might’ve died of hunger then, but he taught me how to live out here.”

     “Then he found you again,” Sadie said.

    “He found a corpse and brought me back to life. I suppose that he’ll move on again once the weather clears. I believe my leg is what’s keeping him here.”

    “Maybe. I don’t know his mind,” Sadie said. “I’ve seen him nearly kill himself, just to help folk. Though… I never did see a man so bound and determined to find a billfold in my life.” She rose from her seat. “I suppose I should be bound an’ determined myself, now. Got a long road ahead of me.”

    “I watched the storm settle in last night. If you’d like to wait it out, you’re more than welcome here.”

    Sadie smiled, remembering winters in the Grizzlies that made the weather outside seem like a brisk spring day. “You’re already sheltering one broken bird. Besides, I’ve got business in Valentine now. It was truly good to meet you, Charlotte.”

    “Help me up, and I’ll see you off properly.”

    Sadie lent Charlotte her arm and Charlotte pulled on a woolen shawl. They came to the main room and found the fire burning bright with freshly hauled wood from outside, still damp with snow. Arthur was gone from his place on the floor.

    Charlotte got to her cabinets, began to pull out cans of food. “Take these for your trip. It’ll be a long journey in this cold.”

     “I do have a small stock already—”

     “Please. It’s my way of thanking you. Besides, maybe the food will help keep you warm on the cold road.”  

     “You’re a quality person, Charlotte. That’s rare in this world.” She accepted the cans. “I’d best go see to the horse right quick.”

    She picked up her belongings and went outside. She found Arthur in with the horses, checking her Tennessee Walker’s hooves.

    “You leavin’?” He asked, without looking up.

    “I am.”

    “Figured you would soon, with the entirety of the Murfree Brood waitin’ in the wagon.” He set the last hoof down, patting the horse’s side as he stepped away from it. “You sure this Walker’s gonna haul you and your load down those roads?”

    “He got us here, didn’t he?”

    “Sure. Balking the whole way.”

    She buttoned her overcoat up to her neck. “Well, Arthur, sure felt like old times. Except no one had to choke down Pearson’s stew at the end of the day.”

    “Or guess what type of meat was sunk at the bottom of the bowl," he added, smirking. “Well, let’s hitch this old boy up.”

    Sadie watched him gather the tack, frowning as she felt a rising tide of words build up inside her.  “You know…I’ve been thinkin’ on what you once said to me. About us two, bein’ more ghosts than people. But I see a livin’, breathin’ man in front of me, and a woman waitin’ for him in that house.” 

     “Ain’t like that,” Arthur said neutrally.

     “Ain’t, huh? Then why’d you want to go after eight crazies in the hills? You always did seem the sort for grand gestures, always bringin’ us folk little things we wanted. Still have that old harmonica you found for me.”

     “That was different. Besides, she’s a widow, an’ I had a debt to repay her—”

     “You think you’re all shut up inside, Arthur, but you’re really all see-through, like a window with it’s shutters thrown open. She may be a widow, but I seen the way she looked at you when I stepped inside, all relieved an’ lookin’ at you like God himself plunked you down in front of her. Saw the way you looked back, too.”

     Arthur shook his head. “Can’t be so. This Carter feller’s got too many secrets to drag down somebody else with ‘im.”

     Sadie smiled sadly at him. “We all got a right to some contentment in this world, someplace to belong. I’m lookin’ for it myself.”

    “An’ I hope we both find it. Until then…it was good to see you again. Truly.”

    “Likewise.”

     Arthur slid the halter over the horse’s head. “Sadie,” he said, suddenly. “Seems like you cover a lot of territory. If you ever see _any_ of the others… leave me dead. If anyone ever came lookin’ for me, especially certain folk, I know how it would end. That part of my life has to stay buried.”

    “Well, Arthur Carter,” she replied, “can’t see as to why anyone would be interested in findin’ a poor trapper such as yourself. But I’ll keep my mouth shut. I’ll go on rememberin’ my good friend Mr. Morgan, and hope to run into Mr. Carter again someday.”

    Arthur took her at her word without second thought, saying, “Same here, Mrs. Adler.” He led her horse out and began hitching it to the wagon. Sadie tossed her things up into the seat and gave Arthur a hand.

    “Goodbye, Sadie.”

    Sadie turned at Charlotte’s voice, saw her make it to the railing of the porch and lean against it. The gray day was somewhat dark, making Charlotte’s outline distinct against the lamp-lit window. She returned the smile she was given. “Goodbye, Charlotte.”

    Ready to depart, she and Arthur walked away from the porch and she climbed up into the wagon.

   Arthur stepped up to front wheel, reaching into his vest pocket.  “Good luck with that Dillon feller, and here—take this.” He tossed something up to her.

     She caught the bag of gold from the lockbox and found something extra within. Getting a good look at the rabbit's foot in her hand, she let out a sharp laugh. “ _He’ll_ be the lucky one if he snakes away again.” Picking up the reins, she glanced back up to Charlotte’s silhouette on the porch, outlined by the lamplight flickering warmly in the window. She looked at him thoughtfully, seeing more of herself in him than she ever had before. “Arthur, a good woman like that wouldn’t be puttin’ up with some no-account man in her house. So, don’t be a fool and forget to live.” She flicked the reins down hard, urging the animal into a sudden canter forward. The wagon jolted as it started down the hill.

Arthur watched her go, frowning at what she had said. She faded out of sight.

The same feeling of running out of time dug at his gut like a dull ache. He turned to Charlotte, the matter at hand pressing hard on his mind as he started back toward her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes on this chapter: first of all, potato poultices are a real thing! Go figure.  
> If you're the type of person who can watch medical videos without getting queasy, then youtube people draining infected wounds. It can get gnarly! 
> 
> I wanted Sadie and Charlotte to have a good talk, since there's a lot of common background with both of them. 
> 
> In the interest of keeping this as canon as possible, Arthur telling Sadie to keep his survival a secret makes the epilogue of the game still work with John. 
> 
> Thanks for all of your kind comments! I'll keep updating.


	9. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Have I got anything to fear from you?”
> 
> “No,” he said, with a look that made her regret asking it.
> 
> She had already known the answer.

 Charlotte leaned into the porch, the shawl drawn up around her shoulders and the wind blowing strands of hair across her face. She could have retreated from the cold, but found herself rooted where she stood. Once the wagon left, he would turn and face her and somehow even the promise of such an insignificant moment drove her to wait, despite the bitter cold.

       She watched as Arthur tossed something up to Sadie, heard her laughter ring loudly over the snow. Leaning on the tall wagon wheel, Arthur listened to whatever Sadie said soberly, her words muffled and unintelligible. Finally, Sadie seemed to catch Charlotte’s eye briefly before the wagon started on. Arthur stood there watching its departure, his back to the house and his shoulders stiff against the cold wind.

     Watching him so openly, Charlotte found herself musing over the touch of his hands on her leg that morning, working deftly on her wound. His fingers had not once lingered over her flesh, yet the firmness of his hands had sent a warm rush through her body, despite the pounding ache in her leg. Such thoughts sent a fierce pang of remorse through her. She had once felt the same toward Cal and had longed for him to touch her, as well. How could Cal feel so truly removed from her life, yet still so wholly a part of it that any thoughts toward another washed her over with guilt?

     Besides all of that, she supposed she should have felt more shame at exposing her leg so freely, especially to a man she caught herself thinking about in her spare hours. But thinking on him was not a new occurrence; truthfully, she had thought of him ever since their last meeting two years ago, hoping that he was well and wondering what had become of him. Now he was with her once more and she found herself wondering what would become of him once he left…for surely, he would leave. What would keep him?

    For what seemed like a long while, Arthur stood there facing the river. Finally, he turned and considered her with a brooding expression that might have frightened a stranger. Following his boot-prints back, he approached her with his head angled toward the ground, only raising his chin up to her at the bottom of the steps.

    “She has a long trip ahead,” Charlotte said, knowingly breaking the silence between them.

    “Undoubtedly.”

    “Storm is blowing in. This might be the only break in the weather for a long while.”

     “Looks like it.”

     She looked at him directly, saw that the cut on his brow had begun to heal. Somehow, the promise of another scar did not detract anything from his features. “So, what shall you do?” she asked, twisting her fingers into the shawl around her shoulders.

    “Well,” he said, hooking his thumbs under his belt. “Friend of mine used to talk on fish and houseguests…how they both start to stink after a few days. Seemed like a fool saying, seeing as he ever had no house to be intruded upon. But here I am now, repeatin’ it, all the same. I’d hate to linger on too long. Some folk is kind just for kindness’ sake, and you don’t owe me nothin’.” He ran a hand through his short hair, which sat matted and windswept. He then saw how she leaned heavily on the rail, keeping weight off her injured leg. “But your leg ain’t right, an’ I don’t want to set off knowin’ I left you like that, if leaving would do you any harm.”

     He seemed so eager to move on, held only the right and wrong of leaving an injured woman. It hurt, more than she could admit to herself, and she heard the frustration seep out of her own words. “You’re right about my leg,” she said, “but you’re wrong about everything else.”

    His head tilted sideways for moment, her bluntness a surprise to him.

    “I’m not being kind for kindness’ sake, though I _do_ owe you. You’ve been nothing but good to me, fixing this house, seeing to my leg, risking your life with those men." She paused, seeming to come back to herself. "You haven’t overstayed your welcome, and you’re no burden.”

    “Okay,” he said simply, the thoughtfulness not yet gone from his voice.

   “But perhaps I would be a burden to you. You’ve done so much for me, more than you had to. And I don’t mean to keep you, if you wish to go. I don’t know where you were headed before you found me, but if there are any people waiting for you, any family—then know that you’ve helped me, once again, and that I’m grateful to you.”

    Arthur shook his head, shifting his weight. “Nobody’s waitin’ on me anywhere.” That confession felt heavy to him; a sad reality that he had fashioned for himself. Only Sadie, and perhaps Charles, knew he even lived.

    Charlotte saw the dark look that passed over him. “Well…” She briefly considered how a widow woman inviting a man into her home for the winter would look… then realized that she didn’t give a damn. Besides, she _did_ need help, as much as she hated to admit it. “At least until you decide what you’d like to do, or the weather breaks, my door is open to you, Arthur…Carter.”  Her inflection dropped at the surname, and he knew he would have to say something.

     There she stood before him, ignorant to the risk that being around him brought. He knew that if certain men were to find him with her, it would only lead to her ruin or her death…and that was not something he could bear. However, if he were to tell her the truth, it would ruin what little regard or seeming sense of debt she held for him. He could lie, but he had already spun some of the old stories to her and she seemed to see right through them.

    Yet, all his choices seemed to return to the blaring truth that he did not _want_ to go. There was something in her eyes that stirred something up into him, made him want to press his body to hers and feel her warm skin against his. Her calm presence was like a balm to the turmoil he often felt in his mind, and she kept him from drowning in his memories. Charlotte made him step beyond the burden of the last thirty years of his life and look forward to the future…whatever that future may be. But a woman like her would take time, would weigh the risk and, once she learned the truth, perhaps send him on his way.

     Yet, in the eyes of the federal government and those from the gang who had turned against him in the end, he was dead. His death had brought him some peace, made living possible again. And so long as he stayed dead, and this new self went on, then why should he not do as he wished? Even so, there would always be the chance it could go south, like most things seemed to.

    Her offer stood hanging in the air, one he wanted to accept. But he could not accept without offering some grain of truth to her.

     “Look, Charlotte,” he said, sighing gruffly, “I’d…I’d like to stay, lend you a hand until your leg betters. But I ain’t no saint. Guess you know that already, sharp woman like you. I’ve lived rough and my soul ain’t right. Done a lot of things I regret… things that I’ve paid for. Now, a lot’s gone on these past few years. That old life is gone, an’ I’ve kept my hands clean. But I’ve never been the type of feller that was looked on as a good man, ‘cept by maybe a few people with real low standards. Guess I enjoyed you thinkin’ on me as a good one. Truth is, I came out this way hopin’ to see you again and see how you was gettin’ on. Never expected to lean upon your hospitality for any longer than was necessary. So, don’t feel like you’ve gotta offer nothin’.” His speech over, he stood there with his chin raised defiantly, the truth in his words leaving him exposed.

     There it was, the answer she had waited for when she gave him back the newspaper clipping: why he had come in the first place. Considering it, she did not speak right away, but measured him silently, wondering what type of self-proclaimed villain would make such a confession, albeit a vague one. “Those things you regret—what were they?”

     He met her eyes squarely, his voice blunt but not defensive. “Enough to know I deserved the hell I’ve lived through.”

     She said nothing but went on looking at him, silently waiting for an answer.

     He drew himself up to his full height, an edge to his voice. “Never killed nobody in cold blood, only those that raised a hand to me first. Never laid a hand against no woman. Tried to earn my keep honestly when I could, and not cause harm. Tried protecting folks along the way.”

     She spoke measuredly. “But you _have_ killed, taken dishonest gain and caused harm.”

     The truth hung there between them like a fog that rolls down over a hill, covering whatever rosiness that had begun to bloom there with a gray chill. Arthur’s eyes flashed with an almost frightening anger at her words, before he dropped his gaze and let out a long breath, denying nothing.

     "I've done a lot of things." he said finally, with conviction. "Learned that life's not kind real young. Every passing year that I saw was a surprise--had to live ready to die, all in the hopes of somehow makin' it to some dream we never reached. Can't pretend I never had no chance to leave, though. When everything went to hell, I done all I could to make amends, and it weren't enough."  

     Charlotte saw the mask of bravado fall and heard the sorrow in his tone. It seemed she saw two men standing there in the snow. One she knew to be honorable, though mysterious; the other surly and intimidating, justifying everything he had ever done with good intentions. As she looked down at him, she saw a man capable and experienced at nearly everything she had been taught to shun…but she could not deny the olive branch he had presented her by confessing his past. It was not easily given. But still, she had more questions.

     "What's your real name?" 

     "Kept it from you for a reason. Knowin' won't help nothing...but, it's Morgan. There's a lot tied up in that old name. Couldn't leave anything behind if I kept it." 

     “Have I got anything to fear from you, Arthur Morgan?”

     “No,” he said, with a forthright look that made her regret asking it. She had already known the answer.

    She surprised him again with a small smile, in place of the loathing he had expected to see after announcing his revelation of character. “Suppose I suspected something when you rushed off after those men. However, you could’ve done any manner of thing to me the first day we met. Instead, you guided a poor widow and returned to make sure I was well. I don’t know what all you’ve done in your life…but I don’t fear you, nor do I feel any hesitation in inviting the man who’s returned my horse and wages to come warm himself up inside while he considers what he wants to do next. Whatever that next step may be, you’re welcome here, just like always.” 

    The acceptance she offered made him hesitate. He had revealed more than he had intended, her unflinching questions dragging a flood of words out--yet she had not turned away from him. He stepped up onto the porch, the wood creaking beneath his weight, and noticed how her dark hair shone where the light hit it. 

    He offered her a hand.  “Until the weather breaks.”  

    She took it, his calloused palm a natural fit, as she rested her forearm over his and leaned into him like a crutch. 

    Arthur closed the door behind them, unsure if the truth would set him free or entrap him in the end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written from the perspective of having played RDR2 with a full honor meter.
> 
> Short chapter, I know, but it was a natural break. More coming soon. I have a definite ending in mind for this story--we're gettin' there! 
> 
> Thought it was about time that Arthur and Charlotte get some of this stuff out into the open. I hate those fanfics where the issues never get examined. 
> 
> Thanks for the kind comments, they make my day.


	10. Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frustrated by the ceaseless pain of her wound, Charlotte seeks an escape while Arthur finds his wanderlust growing after weeks of bad weather.

December 2nd, 1902

_If I ever need a place to go die, I shall remember to return to Beaver’s Hollow because now I have nearly died there twice, and misfortune comes in threes._

_Found out that it was Murfrees who nearly killed Charlotte and that they were back at the old camp, that wretched place that I still see in my dreams. Couldn’t sit by knowing those bastards were out wandering free. Didn’t leave none of them alive and kept on living myself, thanks to Sadie. Ran into her in Van Horn. Good to see her again, someone who knows how it was before, in the old days. She sure walloped me—talking to me like I was some dumb kid._

_I am now residing at Willard’s Rest. Charlotte cannot hardly walk, and I believe that leaving her in the dead of winter would be akin to leaving her to perish by starvation or the cold, and I could not bear for such a thing to happen._

_I began to think badly on keeping my mouth shut about who I am, because of what may happen should anyone ever recognize me. Told Charlotte some. For as proper as she is, she sure doesn’t pussy foot around. Ended up spilling my guts to her. For some reason, she didn’t shy away or turn hard on me. Can’t say I ain’t glad._

_Don’t know how long I’ll be here. Guess the snow and Charlotte’s own sense will decide that._

___________________

January 10th, 1903

Arthur’s breath steamed hard into the frigid air. Winded, he paused atop an overlook just past the Ambarino line, his rifle slung over his shoulder. The winter had only grown colder as the weeks passed, and it was all that he could do to keep water and food in the house. With the cold having settled over the landscape, the game had holed up or expanded their range in search of food. Arthur’s own wanderings had followed suit, his hunting trips often lasting for days. As he stood looking out at the wooded terrain before him, he felt free, happy even. The snow falls had left him and Charlotte cooped up inside the cabin, a sort of wall between them after his confession…and though it felt right to remain there, being trapped inside had only sent a growing restlessness coursing through him. He had been on the run for over half of his life and sitting about left him stir-crazy. When the weather finally broke, Arthur had set out across the river and west toward Ambarino in search of game. Leaving his gelding near the road, he headed for higher ground. The hard climb up the snow-covered hills and the mindless rhythm of his boots against the ground was cathartic, taking the unease of being cooped up from his mind. He would never be content to sit idle; the past few weeks had proven that yet again.

     The cold seeped into his lungs. He coughed as he regained his breath and flexed his cold fingers into fists, the sky a deep, clear blue overhead. This winter felt different to him, giving him an odd sense of change in his gut, a feeling akin to how surviving to see the turning of the century had felt two years ago...and even the changing of the new year, from 1902 to 1903 at Willard's Rest. For as long as he could recall, winter had always brought with it an urgency. With the bitter cold approaching and the law trailing them, the Van der Linde gang had always sought out shelter before the first snowfall. That last winter in Colter had been their last and the worst, with Jenny and Davy dying. Remembering those days left a sour taste in Arthur’s mouth. But winters had always proven hard on them, especially on little Jack. Arthur had always felt the burden of the others weigh on his shoulders, and though it was Dutch and Hosea who had always chosen their route, it had been Arthur and Charles who made sure that everyone was fed. He felt that old responsibility now with Charlotte; they had both grown thinner from conserving the supplies and he saw how it wore on her. He needed to find meat, for both of their sakes.

     From his vantage point on the high overlook, Arthur saw a bulky shape lumbering down the hillside below, antlers spread above the dark, shaggy neck.  Arthur wet his fingertips in his mouth, then held them to the wind and felt the breeze coming in from the north. It was a steady wind and if he could move down the pass from where he had hiked, he could beat the elk to the pass it was headed toward, without his scent alerting the animal.

     Stepping lightly, he pulled the rifle from his back and into his hands, moving quickly southward down the steep trail. The elk was far enough off and did not alter its pace as he descended the path. Finally reaching a rocky outcrop, Arthur crouched and settled with his rifle, his eyes scanning the natural funnel that the sweeping expanse of trees created. The elk would emerge from the clearing below him, if it hadn’t changed its steps.

     Steadying his breathing, he was rewarded with the elk’s slow appearance. The creature moved gracefully, often stopping to scrape its rack over the trunks of the aspen trees and lick the bark. From above, it was a shot of about 300 yards. Arthur watched the elk’s unhurried browsing, waiting for the elk’s body to turn broadside to him.

     It’s body still turned toward him, the elk suddenly stiffened and raised its head, its ears forward and listening. For several minutes, it stood frozen, vitals still hidden from Arthur’s view. Suddenly, from out of the thick tree cover, a large cougar bounded from its hiding place and leapt onto the elk, scrambling for its neck. The elk shook its head roughly, struggling in the deep snow as the cougar hung onto its neck from below and dragging the cat with it as it disappeared into the thick cover of the trees.

    “Damn mountain lions,” Arthur muttered, looking though the scope in search of them. He finally caught sight of them again, the elk still standing as the cougar clamped down on the thick hair that covered its throat. The thick trees only showed flashes of the two creatures, with the cougar’s body most visible. Raising his rifle, Arthur squeezed off two shots into the cougar. Falling limp into the snow bank, the cougar lay motionless as the elk ran swiftly into the tree cover, seemingly no worse for the cougar’s attempts.

     Arthur picked his way down toward the large tom. Approaching it slowly, he took the barrel of the rifle and poked at the cougar’s eyes and nose with it. Satisfied that it was beyond turning on him, he leaned down and ran a hand down its lean body. “Seems we had the same idea, huh, feller?”

 

_______________________________________________________________________________

 

With the weather so bad, it was all Charlotte could do to maintain the fire and keep water in the house. The cold seeped into everything, both flesh and spirits. In the old days of the Balfour house, it was a dreaded season of boredom and fear that they would not find enough food to see spring arrive. But the cold weather had only ever driven she and Cal into their bed to make their own warmth, and now the house felt all the emptier for such memories, especially with Arthur gone hunting.

    Living with Arthur in her home was both a blessing and a burden.  Trapped inside until the storm passed, the next few days would pass with a tinge of tension. Nothing but friendly words passed between them, but they did not flow easily. It seemed that the confession he gave her was the extent of sharing anything from his past willingly. Charlotte almost envied the ease that he and Sadie had clearly shared, an unspoken sense of comradery between them. But nothing was uncivil, and so the distance they kept between them remained.

 The first few days after Sadie left, Charlotte had felt Arthur’s presence in the house distinctly; a comforting one, but a foreign one. She had spent so long alone that having anyone else always at hand was odd to her. After the snow calmed and the wind died down, he would vanish outdoors for hours at a time. His constant activity often took her somewhat aback. If he was not chopping cords of wood at the woodpile behind the shed, then he was off to trap game. He acted with a ceaseless drive, a seemingly boundless energy. She envied his capability and felt frustration as her leg slowly healed. He often did not stop until nightfall, when that energy would fade and he would sit with his feet on the hearth stones, either working in the leather book or on some odd project. They had made awkward conversation with one another at first, when the obvious topics had long been conversed about. But as the nights wound on, Charlotte found herself drifting into long silences around him without thinking anything on it, and found the silence to be reciprocated quite amicably in return. It was a silence bourn of ease, not of awkwardness.

     But there was a heaviness between them. Christmas and New Years had come and gone, largely uncelebrated. Arthur became sullen as the weather had trapped them indoors, escaping out as soon as the sun appeared to hunt. That had been a day ago. She was grateful for his efforts, but his constant need to roam left her with feelings of doubt. She began to feel foolish for all her musings about him, confused by the contradictions in his character. He was both content and brooding, kind but cold. Nothing with him seemed clear, but rather a deep well into which she could not see clearly. The mask of simplicity that he wore hid more than she pretended to imagine, and she began to wonder if she would ever see beyond it.

 She thought on such things at night as she lay awake, unable to sleep for the ache in her calf. The pain only worsened when she lay too still for too long, making sure that sleep did not come easily. That night, the sun had gone down but it was not yet late. Feeling stiff, she stretched her back, arching her body and raising her unafflicted leg. The wound was beginning to frustrate her. She could not walk long on it without worsening the pain, she could not stay still without it stiffening painfully. There was no relief, as she had no laudanum...but she did have bourbon.

Charlotte got to her feet.

______________________________________________

 

Night had fallen.

The cabin sat like a beacon on the hill, the smoke wafting up from the chimney above the tree line and the light from the fire lending a warm glow to the window on the porch. When he saw the cabin from the distance, a sense of welcome return washed over him. Just as he felt the need to wander, he always felt the need to return. He jabbed his heels into the gelding’s sides, urging the horse on.

Hanging the skinned cougar from a beam in the small stable out back, Arthur saw to the horse and finally walked warily to the cabin’s front steps. Opening the door, he found Charlotte with a bottle of Kentucky bourbon, pensively swirling some of the brown liquid in a glass.

      “I thought you was a medicinal drinker only,” he said in greeting, smiling crookedly beneath the beard on his face.

     She returned the smile as he set down his pack and rifle, shrugged out of the wet coat and moved toward the hearth.  “This _is_ medicine tonight.” She poured the golden-brown liquid into another cup, pushing one toward him as he turned away from the fire. “You must have gone far this time. Any luck?”

     “A couple of rabbits. Nearly had a bull elk, but somethin’ else got to it first. Ever eaten mountain lion?”

     “No—but I presume that I will now.”

     He sat down opposite her and watched as she drank.  She brought the cup to her lips and swallowed, heat rushing down her throat. She screwed her eyes closed, the smoky finish lingering as the burn faded.

    Arthur chuckled at that, drinking the whole of his shot in one swallow as Charlotte poured more into both cups. “What inspired this dip from temperance?” he asked.

    “I couldn’t sleep. I feel that I’ve gone stir-crazy, resting this leg.” She raised her eyes to him. “Then there’s you, seeing to the cabin and wood stock, finding meat for the table. I’d feel guilty, if I hadn’t seen you smiling out by the shed a few days ago.” She took a drink, just a sip this time.

     “I’ve seen you, tryin’ to hobble around the house on that leg, determined to set yourself down to something useful.” He nodded seriously. “It’ll mend. Might be months until your life goes back to how it was before, even longer before you stop thinkin’ on it when you move it. Then suddenly you’ll be liftin’ something, years later, and it’ll give you a good twinge, just to remind you it’s there.”

    “It sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

    Arthur unbuttoned the top of his shirt and union suit, looking detached as he pulled the material aside to show a textured scar beside his collarbone. “Enough to know it’ll be a part of you, from here on out.” He then drank, throwing his head back and downing the shot with a practiced hand.

"What happened to you?" 

Colm's ugly face came to his mind as he recalled yet another brush with death frim the old days. "Tried to get away from some fellers an' got on the wrong side of a pistol barrel." He coughed then, the cold air having aggravated his throat and lungs, turning his head aside as he coughed into his arm.

    Charlotte set her empty glass down with a _thump,_ her voice louder than normal now. “Last time you sat here coughing, you ended up on the floor.”

     That surprised a bark of laughter out of him. “Suppose so.”

    “What was it that afflicted you? You’ve bettered now.”

    Arthur frowned. “Bourbon sure makes you chatty.”

    “Perhaps it does,” she returned.

    Arthur poured himself another measure of the amber alcohol and drank it. “Doctor said it was consumption. Nearly killed me, what with livin’ outdoors and running around all the time. Couldn’t hardly breath at the worst of it and I became skin and bones, my clothes hangin’ large on me. I felt like some dried up scarecrow. Dragged myself down to Mexico to die in a Catholic mission house.”

    Charlotte sat up, deep concern passing over her face even as her head tilted far to the side, the bourbon settling hard. “I’ve heard of such places... I’ve also heard that few leave alive, let alone as well as you.”

    “Yeah, well—a feller I know had some remedy. I was about ready to give up the ghost, so I couldn’t fight him off when he gave me some injection. It changed everything, though...still don't know how to think on it. The sisters were ready to throw me down some hole when he showed up." He slid his empty glass to the center of the table, feeling a warm buzz in his head. “I ain’t never told anyone about it. Seemed like a strange dream at the time.”

    “Perhaps God was looking out for you.”

    “Not sure about that, but…I’ve passed through too much trouble to not think on it from time to time. Don’t know what he’d want with a fool like me, though.” He paused, watching as Charlotte reached for the bottle again. He took her lightly by the wrist, stopping her from pouring another shot for herself. “If your head tilts any further on your neck, it’ll be you on the floor this time.”

    She waved him off. “I’m fine.”

    “Sure, until tomorrow.” He clasped the bottle by its glass neck and corked the top closed. “You should sleep.”

    She sighed, her head feeling heavy, leaning into her elbows on the table. “I’ve had my fill of sleep and rest. Winters are dreary enough without being laid up like this.” She stood and went to the armoire by the front door, her steps less than graceful. “I’ve knitted a few things—a hat and scarf. Made them for a boy out near Van Horn. His father died in the mines a few years ago and his mother is a friend of mine. I’d like to go tomorrow. Breathe in some fresh air and deliver them to him, while it’s still cold enough to use them.” She turned to him and set her hand upon his shoulder. “Come with me. We can take the wagon and bring back supplies.”

    Arthur considered it for a moment, unwilling to waltz into a town where he would have to keep his head down. But upon remembering the store of personal goods he had acquired from the Murfree Brood, he began to think differently. “If you’re not laid up from all that bourbon tomorrow, I’d say that’s a fair idea.” He pushed his chair back and rose from the table. With one hand to her brow and another keeping her balance, she held onto the table top. Arthur took hold of her forearms, steadying her. He chuckled. “I’ve seen you do plenty of things well, but holding your liquor ain’t one.”

    Charlotte huffed in seeming offense, her cultured airs not entirely gone even in the haze of indulgence. “I was raised to be a lady, and ladies aren’t allowed into the brandy or bourbon, to speak our mind when it mattered, or to do anything, for that matter. That’s why I—we—came out here.”

    “For the freedom,” Arthur murmured.

    “Yes. For the freedom.” She looked into his face and caught the look he gave her, one of intensity, softened by restraint and the smile lines around his eyes. “You need it, too--freedom. It's why you roam so far.” 

   Hearing her warm tone toward him, he did not pull away from her, even as their touch lingered. Still very clear-headed, Arthur knew a drunk woman was not the sharpest, and come morning she may look upon him with disgust...a lesson he had learned the hard way too many times before. After Mary had broken their engagement, he had drowned his sorrows in cheap whiskey and cards. Eliza had been there; a girl as young and dumb as he was, with a sympathetic ear and a good eye for business. He didn't remember hardly anything from that night...but later learned of the product of all that booze and Eliza's sweet words when she told him of Isaac. It was a messy chapter of his life, one that burdened him daily. Thinking hard of Eliza, disappointed and bitter toward him, Arthur began to step away from Charlotte. 

Bleary-eyed, she took her arm from his grasp and laid her hand hesitantly on his chest, feeling his breath quicken under her palm. She slid a hand up, her fingers light in his hair, pulling his head closer to hers until her forehead rested against his. He smelt like pine, woodsmoke, and sweat.

Her touch cast everything from his mind. His hands skimmed the sides of her arms, settling on the curve of her hips. He pulled her closer, her body pressed into his. Her mouth teased at his neck, brushing over his skin as she felt his chest rise and fall quickly, her hand now grasping at his shirt. Her breath smelt strongly of liquor, and even as she braced against him thus, her feet swayed. Before her mouth could touch his, she sagged drunkenly into him, her face in his shoulder.

 "You're a good man, Arthur," she murmured. 

Closing his eyes, Arthur’s hands fell and he took Charlotte by the shoulders, pushing her half an arm's length away with reluctance as he supported her body. 

There were no tears as she spoke, though her words slurred together.  "I’ve been alone for _years." H_ er voice was soft and stubborn all at once. “I've always loved solitude--but _this_ solitude...no neighbors close by, no family, no Cal...it's like a weight. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” 

"Ain't living if there's no pain. Life is hard." His voice matched hers in volume; they were near enough to whisper and still be heard. "Now...come on. Give me your arm." 

Arthur silently helped her through the house to her bed, where she lay undignified on top of the blankets. His senses still coursing and alive, he brushed her hair from her face with a short motion. 

"You're not alone, now." 

She watched the last sliver of light fade as the door shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While alcohol did seem like a cheap way to get Charlotte to break a barrier with Arthur, how else would a proper woman let down her guard?
> 
> "This is the Thing" by Fink - RDR reminiscent song


	11. Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two lonely souls will invariably find one another

The morning light in her eyes felt like a heavy blow to the head, adding a sharpness to the dull throbbing in her temples. Charlotte leaned over the wash basin, splashing cold water into her face. Staring into the white ceramic, she watched as droplets fell from her skin into the basin, each ripple spreading forth until it struck the side of the bowl.

She looked up into the mirror, displeased by what she saw staring back. She saw a gaunt woman wearing her own clothes, the usually bright eyes now darkened. She was thinner than she had been in the Fall, her cheek bones more prominent and her collarbones showing around the neckline of her shimmy. She frowned, touching her own cheek. She had once heard it said that life speeds by, each year faster than the next. She hadn’t believed such sentiments when she was younger, feeling like the days dragged by as she awaited her life to start. She had once been the naïve daughter of a wealthy man, robust and full of hope for what might come; now she was a poor widow, drinking to excess while she mourned a dead husband… all while running her hands over the man staying in her home. She could not recall all of it, but what she could caused heat to rush to her face.  There was no running from it; she would have to face him. But what was there to say? If she admitted her embarrassment, then it may seem that she had not enjoyed it…and she had. Part of her longed to admit that she did not fully feel apologetic for her actions, though it was with relief that she knew she had awoken alone and took solace that she may need only apologize for the embrace.  Though she felt shame for thinking on it, she found herself wondering in equal measure if Arthur had held back out of chivalry or disinterest. She hated how foolhardy she had been and hated that Arthur had seen her drunk off her feet. The bourbon had wiped away all of her inhibitions and she had acted on how she felt—shamelessly.

    Stewing in such thoughts, she worked quickly to rub salt over her teeth, rinsing her mouth with water. She pinned her hair up and dressed in a plain dress, feeling that simplicity was best after last night’s forwardness. She then set out in search of him, determined to swallow the shame she felt over last night and the vulnerability she had to wear now to speak about it.

    The Bourbon bottle still sat out on the table. Seeing it brought a long sigh from her as she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and then pulled on a dingy canvas jacket. Standing near the hearth, she looked out the window and saw Arthur behind the cabin, standing with the horses outside. Her mouth pressed into a firm line as she gazed out at him.

    Out on the porch, she paused as her aching head pounded hard, the sunlight only worsening the ache. Shaking her head hard, she started for the back of the house…when a sudden thought caused her to stop. Somberly, she raised her head and turned her feet toward the river. Walking down the hill, she quietly approached the wooden cross that sat there, suddenly immersed in memories. The cold gray of the winter faded before her eyes as she recalled years gone by, all golden and filtered through sun and love for a husband she would never see again.

    _“It’s a fine piece of land,” Cal said, walking along the riverbank. “Perhaps the finest on Roanoke Ridge. There’s the beginnings of a cabin there, up the road a ways. We can finish it, make our home.”_

_She stood amongst the tall grasses, the spring sun warm and bright. She watched Cal’s confident strides forward, how he stopped to admire the crashing waterfall. "Finish it?”_

_He turned. “What?”_

_“The cabin. What happened to whoever started it?”_

_Cal walked back toward her, took her hands in his. “Winter happened. They arrived late, ran out of provisions and the weather turned on them… Or so the bank told me. But it’s still early on in the year. We can make a home here and be prepared for the cold.” He smiled at her, his excitement warming her doubt._

_“I know I’m dragging my feet,” she said, “and it’s beautiful here…but there’s no one for miles, and good people have already died out here.”_

_“Good people die in the city, on the road, in their homes. We’ve lived our lives confined, Charlotte. We can be free here.”_

_She had tried to hold onto her misgivings, but his cheerfulness was difficult to resist. “It_ is _good to be free of the city, of expectations,” she said, relenting._

_“That’s the spirit! This is where we were meant to be, Charlotte.” He took her in his arms. “This is where we’ll put down our roots, start our family. Future generations of Balfours will trace their family line back to here, to us.”_

_For all of the second thoughts she had about their journey north, only to arrive at a humid patch of woods with hardly any possessions on their person, looking up into Cal’s warm eyes cast her fears aside. Charlotte pressed a soft kiss to his lips, lingering as he returned the kiss and his hands came up to cup her face._

     The overcast morning sun did not yet feel warm. She shivered as she knelt before the grave, ran her hand over the snow and earth that held her beloved Cal beneath. The grave marker sat crooked, pushed by the weight of the fallen snow. The carved name lay stark against the dark bark, _CALVIN BALFOUR_.

    She sat up on her knees, took the sides of the marker and straightened it. She then brushed aside the snow that covered the rocks at the base of the cross and rearranged them, strengthening it.

   “Been a strange year,” she murmured. “If you had seen me last night, Cal, you would’ve been ashamed. I truly don’t know if you would recognize me anymore. I…I’m not the same woman who came out here with you. I’ve killed men, almost died, gotten drunk, and nearly—” she stopped talking abruptly, her eyes downcast. Her hand clenched into a fist on the ground, her tightening fingers dragging snow into her balled hand where it melted, water dribbling onto the ground. “We had such dreams, didn’t we? I suppose we made good on some of them. But, now I’ve other dreams...and it feels wrong, because while I must walk onward, you’re forever stuck in the past. I made a vow to you, to love you in sickness and health. Now I’m free of that vow, but I never hoped to be. My life has changed—nothing is certain anymore.” Her eyes squeezed shut as a crushing truth descending heavily, her voice low. “I hardly know who I am, anymore.” _And I love a man I hardly know,_ she thought, unable to even speak the words aloud. She almost chided herself for thinking it. How could she even equate her lust toward Arthur as love? But it was more than just lust. She saw the goodness in him, the sacrificial nature of everything he had done for her. He was rough and often somewhat curt, but also kind and giving. Though it hadn’t been spoken since the day Sadie left, he had admitted to her that he had returned to see her. And though he had only been there for a short while, the thought that he may very well pack up and leave cast her into a glum sort of sadness.

     Her intense fondness for Arthur pricked her to the heart with guilt as she knelt before Cal’s grave. She had devoted everything to Cal, just as he had devoted all to her. They had set out from the city, from the security of money and family together, to face an unknown future in a solitary place. They had dreamt of farming and of children…but would find no success with either. The garden had withered, and, for all their attempts, Charlotte had never been with child. Every time the monthly bleeding came, it was a blow. The bitter disappointment was made bearable by the reality that they had not yet truly established themselves on the land yet. When there were crops and abundant food, perhaps then they would be blessed with children. Months would pass and the winter came and went. They had awaited Spring, only to be met with yet another disaster; Cal’s encounter with a Grizzly. Then Arthur had arrived.

   Arthur. Mysterious, conflicted Arthur. Charlotte opened her eyes. “I can’t hardly even remember what all I said or did last night. But I do remember…” Had they only embraced? She rose, brushing snow from her knees. There was nothing to be done but find him and get it over, or the knot in her stomach would never better.

      Arthur occupied himself with grooming the horses. He stood with his Hungarian Halfbred, running a brush over the creature’s back and murmuring soft words to it. Hearing Charlotte’s footsteps, he looked up, his eyes flitting from her to the ground. He cleared his throat as she approached. She stood opposite him, the horse between them, and rested her hands on the large horse’s side.

    “Wasn’t sure if you’d be up walking around this morning,” he said, looking over the gelding’s back at her.

    “I feel like someone struck me in the head…though I know I did it to myself,” she replied, trying to keep her voice lighter than she felt. “I think the first two drinks would have been enough…it was all of the rest that got me.”

     “I could tell you some stories that’d make you feel better about yourself, but then you’d know how foolhardy I am.”

     “Well, I feel a fool for last night. I hardly remember what I said…or did.” She met his eye briefly as she said it, saw how he looked at her with such hesitance in his eyes. “I _do_ remember an embrace, and you prying me from you. I’m sure I was a proper blathering fool—”

    “It’s been a hard winter,” Arthur said, cutting her off. “Can’t fault you none for looking for some escape from it all, what with all that’s happened.” The corner of his mouth quirked up into a half smile as he continued brushing. “Besides, it was nice to see you loose, not so starched up all the time.” 

     “You think I’m stuffy?”

     “I think you’re stubborn, an’ you’re hanging on to however you thought you were supposed to be.”

    “Would a stubborn woman have apologized for being so forward last night?”

    “Maybe—if she knew there was no gettin’ away from it…but I can’t say there’s anything to apologize for.”

    “What would have merited an apology, then?”

    He considered that for a moment, then quipped, “If you keep dwelling on last night, we may start to have problems.”

    She _was_ dwelling. For all of the courage the Bourbon had given, it freely took all of her dignity and memory. “Perhaps if I knew what I did last night, I wouldn’t feel so inclined to worry about it.”

    Her seriousness lifted somewhat when she looked cautiously to his face and saw that his expression did not match his cool tone; he looked sincere and somewhat embarrassed. “Well…we talked on you feelin’ stir crazy, and you spoke on your mittens that you made for a kid in town, how you wanted to deliver them to him. Then you began to lose your feet, so I gave you my arm…” he cleared his throat. “It wasn’t no big thing, just an embrace, like you said.”

    “I can only imagine all that I said.”

    “Don’t think on it. There ain’t no man or woman ever made into a sage though fire water, though it sure does make you think on yourself as one.”

     That brought a smile to her, one she tried to hide.

     “Anyway,” he said, his brushing hand slowing as he noticed her mood lightening, “you were real bound an’ determined to get down to Van Horn. That still something you want to do?”

    “It is. Not just to deliver mittens, but to buy more provisions, though I fear the roads are no better now than last week.”

    “No, not yet. We may be able to reach the town on horseback. A bag or a sack'll have to replace the wagon for supplies.” He then smirked good-naturedly at her, which sent her pulse climbing. “We can go tomorrow—when your head stops pounding.”

    Charlotte looked at him. She did not respond, but rather thought on how he seemed to remember most of her passing comments, and so stood there rubbing the horse’s neck as Arthur resumed brushing. “I’d like that.”

    “It’s decided then,” he replied.

     She turned for the house.

    “Charlotte?”

    “Yes?” She turned her head to look back at him.

    He tugged on the beard that hung down his chin. “There a razor around? Mine must’ve fallen out of my saddlebag—could be anywhere from here to Ambarino.”

     “I’ll lay it out for you.”

        ________

Everything was prepared for the trip into Van Horn before nightfall. The horses’ hooves had been cleaned and their tack checked. Inside the house, a cheerful fire blazed in the hearth. In the front bedroom, Arthur leaned forward to look into the small mirror propped against the wall. The razor scraped against his cheek, bringing with it soapy lather. His gaze was intense, focused on the motions of the blade in his hand as he shaved the last of the unruly beard from his face.

      Charlotte found herself looking at him as he worked and couldn’t help but notice how fine looking a man he was. The funny thing was that he didn’t seem to realize it. Pulling her eyes back to her own work, she replaced the old pot she was drying back onto its shelf. They had eaten a supper of cougar stew and skillet biscuits, their talk lighter than it had been in weeks. It was as if the awkwardness of the night before had somehow broken down some unspoken wall that had stood between them. She now laughed openly, and he smiled freely at their talk. The easiness between them felt right and familiar, as if they had known each other far longer than the time that had passed.

     Picking up a long sack with a strap sown to it, Charlotte packed the scarf and mittens inside it, before remembering something else to take along with them. She dug inside the armoir and found what she had been looking for—a book with a dark cover.

 Arthur came out into the hearth room, patting his face dry with a cloth. There was still some stubble upon his face, but the beard that had grown over the past weeks was now gone.

    “From scruff to gentleman,” she said.

    Arthur ran a hand over his chin. “Ain’t never been a gentleman. A dog is a dog all the same, even dressed up.”

    “You’re no dog,” Charlotte said, returning to the table with the book.

    “What’s that?” he asked.

    “My friend lent it to me a few months ago—the mother of the boy. I mean to return it to her tomorrow.”

    Arthur sat down at the table. “Any good?”

    “It was interesting. All about a lady named Susan Grade who falls in love with her husband’s killer, David Vincent. It’s in every shop right now.” She handed the dark colored book to him. “Maybe someday I’ll have a book, and I’ll see people I know reading it.”

    “You may yet, the way your stories are printed in the newspapers now,” he returned, turning the book over in his hands. “ _The Lady of the Manor,_ by Leslie DuPoint,” he read. “Huh. Never was much for reading, though I used to like those Penny Dreadfuls. I have tried my hand at scribbling things down.”

    “Such as?”

    “Simple stuff, things I’ve seen. Nothin’ that would change the world much.”

     She shook her head, tired of the self-depreciation when she saw such a fine man sitting there beside her. “There can be beauty in simplicity. Simple things can touch our souls far more than the complex, because everyone can relate to them. It’s one of the uniting commonalities of man, understanding the base needs of our natures. We all hunger, thirst, mourn…those are the things that everyone understands. There’s nothing wrong with simple.” She tucked the book inside the sack, then noticed his gaze upon her and mistakenly took it for judgment. She laughed. “Well—listen to my rambling on.”

    “You could have taught at a schoolhouse,” he said, sincerely, “shared all those brains with other folk.”

    “I once thought about teaching—then I met Cal, and my life took on a new direction... a good one, but one far different than what I had once imagined for myself. I didn’t have much schooling beyond 14…my family felt I had received quite enough knowledge of numbers and grammar and needed lessons in etiquette…but I read as much as I could after that.”

    “It shows. Never had much of it myself…I suppose I was schooled in other ways.”

    “Did you ever attend school?”

    “Couple of years, when my mother was around to see that I went. After she died, all that stopped.”

    “You were young when she passed?”

    “I was. Life sure changed after she was gone.”

     She smiled sadly at him, his look suddenly distant, as if lost in memory. “And your father?”

    “He died later…though I wasn’t sad to see him go.” He shifted in his seat, unwilling to talk further of Lyle Morgan. “There was another feller, name of Hosea, who treated me more like a son than he ever did. He and his wife, Bessie, did their best by me. Taught me how to do sums and read, patch a torn jacket, pick up jobs here an’ there. They were the only true folks I ever had.”

    “I’m sure they were fine people.”

     “That would depend on who you asked. Your folks still around?”

    “My father passed recently. I only heard of his death through a letter from my mother. She was not pleased to see me go and voiced it…I thought I may never receive her forgiveness for it, but now we write regularly. I regret not being closer with either of them…but the past is done, and there’s no use to living in one’s regrets.”

    “Sure does take its toll.”

    She set the rucksack aside, longing to ask him all the things she wondered about, but was restrained by decorum. Prying would only push him away, and she enjoyed the easy way they spoke now.

     “You might slap me for sayin’ so,” Arthur said suddenly, his words deliberately slow, “but I can’t well imagine you living with much burden on your shoulders. You’re a good woman—you’ve done right by people, seen things through. Can’t say as though you’ve ever been different, from what you’ve said of yourself.”

    The statement, meant as half a compliment but taken as half an insult, took her somewhat aback. “There’s not a soul alive who doesn’t have any regret.”

    “I didn’t say there is, just that—well—good folks can surely look back with some pleasure on their lives, can’t they?”

    “You don’t?” she asked pointedly.

    “Well, sure. There were some good times, mixed in with a whole lot of bad... all’s I’m saying is that you’ve lived a good life since you were a kid. You should be proud of it. It’s more than I can say of myself.”

     “Even trying to live a good life, there’s plenty I wish I could change,” she said.

    Arthur leaned back from the table. “Got you all riled up—well, let’s hear it then.”

    Feeling challenged, even though his tone was neutral, Charlotte sighed in consternation. “I went against my family to come here. They cut me off from everything…all contact with them. That hurt more than I can say. But I wouldn’t change following Cal out here. Then…Cal’s run in with the bear. That, more than anything else, I wish I could undo. I wish I could save him from all of that, from all of the pain he went through.” She paused. “Sometimes I think I might have moved back to the city…maybe I could have mended things with my father, before he died.”

    “You could return now,” Arthur said, somewhat softly. She had been more honest with him than he had suspected she would be.  

    “There’s no point to it,” she replied. “To uproot from here would feel like a greater sin than to return there…besides, I’m as close to them now as I ever was. I was always different from them. I resented all of the pomp and meaningless politics that ruled our household. The way they acted, you would have thought that we were royalty. I broke away as soon as I could. That’s why I never went back. Some things will always turn out badly, despite our best efforts.” She sat down across from him, her arms crossed across her chest. “What about you? What things would you change?”

    “That’s a list long enough to stretch from here to San Denis.”

    “You got an honest answer from me. Besides, I’ve got to thinking that we hardly know each other, Arthur. I have a right to know the man who’s sleeping in my home.”

    Arthur leaned his head back, his fingers drumming along the table before finally sighing frustratedly. “Everything. If I could change my life, I’d change everything…starting with my no-good father. The law hung him for larceny when I was a kid. If they’d have just hung him sooner, and if my mother hadn’t died of fever, I never would have gotten into the life I’ve lived. I don’t know what would have happened, but it would have been a hell of a lot tamer than it turned out to be.”

    “What did you do, after they were both gone?”

    “Got kicked around, begged for scraps, stole folks’ coins and bills from them when they weren’t looking. Got damn good at it, too. Then some fellers found me, fed me a few good meals. When they offered to take me along with them, teach me and feed me, I went with ‘em. They were my family.” His brow furrowed. “But folks break. Took twenty years to crumble, but it did. Half of them turned out to be back-stabbers. Can’t say I was surprised by some of it.”

    “You were thieves,” she said, no judgment in her tone but instead a voice full of sudden understanding.  

    “That and more,” he replied darkly. “Of course, it was all justified at the time. We never kidnapped innocent folk or raped--and that made us better than the rest to our reckoning. The world had dealt us all a bad hand and we fought back. Wasn’t until I got sick that I began to see how wrong it all was, how wrong _I_ was. I done plenty of wrong, Charlotte. There were plenty of good folks who died along the way, by my own hand. We wandered everywhere, waiting for a take big enough that we could get out and make somethin' better for ourselves."

    His openness emboldened her to ask the things she never would have dared to before. “Is the law still after you?"

     He shook his head. "According to the papers, I died in 1899. Trying to keep it that way." He suddenly looked sincere. "I'd never have drug anyone up here--no lawmen or bushwhackers-- with me knowingly. Not with you here." 

    She considered that for a moment before another question entered her mind. "That woman, Sadie...she rode with you all, didn't she?" 

    Arthur nodded. "She did. Her husband was murdered and she wanted justice done." 

    "But you never married, with all of that wandering?”

    “Almost did, once. She chose a farmer instead— _Barry Linton."_   He almost spat the name, as if it were some curse. _"_ I guess she figured I wasn’t good enough to join her family. Thing is, maybe she was right. Her daddy had gone out and found a proper husband for her. I was just a kid, twenty-two. She broke things off with me and I took it hard, ended up drinking to try to forget her for just one night. Met a girl who worked at the saloon. She was no hooker, just a waitress—” he stopped talking, feeling like he’d spoken too much, and it left a twisting feeling in his gut.

    “What was her name?” Charlotte asked.

    “Eliza." He paused, but the story continued, despite the detached way he then spoke. "She spoke kindly to me when I was sucker for it. She reminded me of Mary—something in her face or eyes. We got to drinking together and by the time I remember waking up the next day, I knew what we had done. I left, ashamed, without a word to her. Shames me to say it, but I forgot about her for a time. Next time I passed through town, I saw her there, bartering off the last of her earthly possessions for food and as pregnant as she could get. The saloon had kicked her out after she couldn’t work no more. She had nobody and was desperate. She hated the very sight of me, wouldn’t accept no help…but I visited her often, even offered to marry her.”

    “Did she accept?” Charlotte asked, feeling a quiet anger building up within in. She and Cal had struggled to have children... and somehow he and a stranger had managed it without any thought. It seemed wrong to her, like a cruel blow from an infinitely cruel world.

    “No,” he said, softly. “She was proud—and smarter than me. She knew what I was and wanted no part of it.”

    “Did you ever see the child?”

    “Not often. It was a chance to leave my worthless life and pursue something honorable, but I shunned it. Only saw the boy a few times every year. Tried to help as much as I could. She named him Isaac, after her granddaddy.”

    “Where is he now? How old is he?”

    Arthur looked sorrowfully at her. “They were both killed, twelve years ago now. Found their graves outside the house and heard the story from the sheriff in town later.”

     So he had received a cruel blow then, too. Though she had never had any of her own, at least she had not lost any. It was a pain she could not imagine. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

    “Well…it was my own damn fault. I could have been there, protected them. But they were alone. I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

     “It was a long time ago. You wouldn’t have abandoned them now... and you’re not the same man you were back then.”

    He met her eyes and saw the sincerity in her gaze, softening the grief he felt talking about all of it. His voice was almost a scoff.   "How do you know?" 

    She stood suddenly. “Put on your coat.”

    He only looked at her as she pulled on her own things, finally standing when she held out his own thick blue overcoat to him.

     She opened the door and shivered in the cold blast of air that struck her. She reached out her hand to him. Uncertainly, he took it and allowed her to lead him outside.

     “Where are we going?”

     “To the overlook.”

     They trekked in silence then, heading up the steep incline from behind the shed to the top of the falls. The night was bright. The full moon seemed to beam down upon them, illuminating the frozen world for miles before them, even before they reached the top. Both breathing hard from the climb, she stopped at the edge of the cliff. The falls thundered mightily to the right, cascading down with strength even in the dead of winter. The spray from the water lent a chill to the air. Arthur joined her near the edge.

     “This is my sorrow place,” she said gravely. “Here, you can shout all of your anger and have your voice be drowned out by the falls. Looking out and seeing that vast country…it reminds me that my problems are shared by the world, by everyone out there. Looking out from here reminds me that I’m not alone.” She looked at him then. “ _You’re_ not alone, Arthur Morgan.”

     There was something fierce about her, standing there in the frigid air and the moonlight. He wondered at how such a kind, decorous woman could call out his greatest fear and throw it aside so boldly.

    They stood staring out at the great expanse of land, shoulders touching as Arthur reached for her hand. She wrapped her fingers around his own, a warmth growing there against the cold night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur isn't always the smoothest talker, but he does get to point. 
> 
> More chapters coming very soon! I have time to write now--finally!


	12. Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's dreams keep him from slumber and Charlotte's doubts about Arthur grow

_It’s a clear day; the sun streams down through the hanging vines and foliage from above. The swamp air is thick and heavy. Flies buzz lazily around Arthur’s head as he dozes near the water. He wakes occasionally; his waking moments focused on the leisurely bobbing of his fishing line on the water, before falling asleep to a dream of Mary. She feels real on his arm; she speaks as they used to, in low whispers, before her father learned of their stolen moments together behind his barn. Her head resting on his shoulder, she traces a meandering line over him with her hand. “You should go,” she murmurs, her lips close to his ear._

_“No need to rush,” he replies, his eyes still closed._

_“I think somebody needs you.”_

_“Not anymore, they don’t. I chose you, remember?”_

_She sits up. Her voice is sorrowful and hurt. “No, Arthur… you didn’t. Now_ look _.”_

_He opens his eyes. Mary is gone. There's a distant voice--pleading with him as if from far away. He grows aware of a hand tugging at his collar._

_“Uncle Arthur, wake up.”_

_Arthur awakes with a start, blinking into the sun as the boy lays a small hand on his shoulder. “Jack?”_

_The boy is covered in soot. He is no older than the day that Abigail begged him to take the boy fishing. His eyes are wide with fear.  “We have to go. The camp is on fire.”_

_“Micah,” Arthur growls, rolling to his feet and grabbing Jack under the arms. Suddenly the swamp is filled with smoke. Arthur starts to run, holding Jack close, as he looks desperately around for his horse. He whistles, the sound clear and sharp, but no horse appears and Arthur vaguely recalls that it has died. Seeing no other way, Arthur begins to run. His legs pound hard through the mud. Smoke closes in around them, burning their eyes and causing Arthur to cough painfully. The swamp gives way around them as Arthur sprints forward through the gray smoke, and suddenly there is a path under his feet. The swamp trees give way and tall pines come in and out of view as his stamina begins to deplete._

_The smoke only thickens. Arthur cannot breathe. Gasping, he falls to his knees, Jack still in his arms. He lays Jack on the ground, coughing violently, and sees that the boy is not breathing. His face is ashen and blue. “Jack!” He shakes the child by the shoulders, afraid to get too close because he knows that the Tuberculosis had returned. “_ Jack _!”_

_His mind racing, he kneels over the boy and a terrible sorrow washes over him. It’s too late for any heroics; the boy is gone. There are no tears as the cough rips through Arthur’s body. He is overcome by it, the wet cough that ravages his body. Leaning over, he hacks hard onto the ground, into his hands, and sits back wheezing hard for breath. Blood covers him, frothy pink and flecked with pink tissue._

_Picking up the child’s lifeless body, he stumbles to his feet and staggers on, his mind hazy. “Jack…Jack…” he wheezes, coughing flecks of blood onto Jack’s pale face._

_Abigail is there, taking Jack from Arthur’s arms and sobbing. “My boy…my boy…” She carries the boy away, overcome by grief._

_“I tried…I tried….” Arthur says, turning away. He blindly walks into the woods, trying to escape the sound of Abigail’s wailing. There in the darkness, Leopold Strauss sits at a wagon, a lantern dimly giving light to the debt-book open on his lap._

_“Ah, Mr. Morgan! I need you to go find one Algie Davison. He is a fisherman and a drunkard.”_

_“Can’t you see I’ve given all I have?” Arthur barks. He raises a fist toward Strauss, who cowers like a dog at the threat of a blow. He lowers his hand, disgust and rage devouring him. He walks away from Strauss, who crawls away. Finally, Arthur reaches the lakeshore. He kicks down the door. Algie Davison is sprawled out on the floor of his house, drinking._

_“You owe us, Davison.”_

_Algie stands drunkenly, staggers toward the kitchen. “…here, my life savings…”_

_“Under the sink?”_

_A wooden box is held out. “Here. In this box. Take it all.”_

_Arthur takes it, looks inside. As his eyes settle in the empty box, a sudden thrust to the gut knocks the breath out of Arthur’s lungs. The box falls from his hands, clatters on the floor. He looks down to the knife, plunged into his gut up to the handle and sucks in a ragged breath as Davison pulls it from his stomach. Blood pools from his body and onto the floor and the sickening smell of busted innards fills his nose— he looks up and sees a flash of a frightened looking face, and with confusion sees that it’s Mary holding the knife in her trembling hand—_

     Arthur awoke with a violent start. Breathing hard, he lay there in the dark, staring up into the ceiling as his pulse slowed. Covered in a cold sweat, he kicked the quilt that covered him off and let the burst of cold air cool him as the dream replayed in his memory, as clear and fleeting in his mind as witnessing a flash of lightening. Desperately trying to recall all of it, he sat up and rested his head in his hands. Jack dying—the TB—Strauss—the knife…Mary’s horrified face.

     Falling back against the pillow, he emptied his lungs, then drew in several long breaths, knowing that sleep would only lead to more dreams. He ran his hand over his stomach, feeling the dreamed blow still, as his heart rate finally slowed. He turned his head to look out the west facing window; saw that it was still dark. He got to his feet.

_________________________________________________________________________

    The last embers sputtered and smoked as Charlotte dumped a bucket of melted snow over the coals in the hearth. She took up the iron poker and banked down the last of the fire, stamping down any red embers into the wet ash and coughing as the smoke rose up into the room. She was dressed in enough layers to keep the cold out on the road to Van Horn, all covered by Cal’s old canvas jacket as a windbreak. Humming to herself, she shouldered the sack and picked up her rifle. The tune died on her lips as she looked down at the weapon in her hands for a long moment, remembering vividly the last time she had call to use it. Shaking those thoughts from her mind, she took a last look around the room for forgotten items and trudged outside to meet Arthur with the horses. He stood adjusting tack over his gelding’s head.

     She looked to him, saw the look on his face and frowned. “You look troubled. Is everything alright?”

     “Just fine,” he replied, and knew that she did not believe him.

     Charlotte wordlessly set her rifle against the fence and took up the heavy saddle for her old brown mare, hefting it quietly up over the horse’s back.

     “Strong lady,” Arthur remarked, glancing back at her as she worked.

    “Stronger than I appear, anyway,” she replied, working to cinch up the saddle as the mare shifted agitatedly.

    “I know it. Takes a lot of grit to live out here alone like you done.”

    “Well, it’s far easier to have grit with my leg having bettered. It feels good to walk again, and to ride. I think my leg’s healed just fine, thanks to all that you did.”

    He didn’t accept the acknowledgement, but instead pulled up his collar against the wind and placed his worn gambler’s hat down over his head. “Weather seems clear enough. We shouldn’t get caught in no storms.”

    As Charlotte’s mare fussed, he looked over to the third horse, recovered from Beaver’s Hollow all those weeks ago. “You sure you don’t want to take that one? Old faithful looks a little riled.”

    “She always starts out so. She’ll forget her troubles once we go.”

    Tightening the cinch at her mare’s underside, she saw Arthur’s boots approach. He held the mare still by the bit, making Charlotte’s task easier.

     “Did I hear you up and walking around in the middle of the night?”

    He didn’t reply all at once. “Couldn’t get any decent sleep. Thought it was best to give it up,” he said, his voice strained. Charlotte frowned but dropped the issue. The saddle ready, she stood and straightened her back, making motions to reach for the reins. Arthur pulled them up over the mare’s ears and handed them back to her. She then took the rifle from the fence and slid it into the saddle’s rifle holster. “Ready to go?” she asked. Arthur nodded, mounting his own horse.

     The snow had melted off some from the road, making for fast travel. Charlotte rode ahead, the motion of the horse’s quick gait loosening some stands of hair from the pins that held her hair up. She rode tall, her back straight and her legs strong against the mare’s sides, keeping the ornery mare in check.

     Arthur watched her ride, keeping up a few paces behind her. Seeing her at her writing or darning, no one would have suspected her skill at riding. He figured she must have become pretty good with the rifle, too, to have survived the Murfree visit of last year. She was a hard woman to completely figure, but there was something in her nature, both soft and hardened, that was intriguing. He was still chewing on the events of the night before; standing atop the overlook at the falls, he had felt a peculiar feeling wash over him as he stood beside her and clasped her hand…one of being _home._ He couldn’t recall the last time he had felt so peaceful or purposeful. Such moments lent him clarity. Eliza had been young and relied on him purely out of desperation. Mary had wanted him, but not his life. Now there was Charlotte, who seemed to be so lonely herself that no matter of alarming stories from his past seemed to shake her. He felt that he should leave still. Her leg was stronger now than even a few days ago---shown by the way she held herself in the saddle, walked about the property and hauled water and wood, albeit with a little hitch in her step. She did not need him anymore…and now that she did not, he knew he would become a burden, in one way or another.

     It was inevitable that his present would never be free of the past.  He could not shake the images that he had dreamt from his mind or chase away the feeling of dread that had descended on him. He knew that Abigail, Jack and Tilly had gotten away that day that the camp broke and the Pinkertons caught up to them…he knew that he had allowed Mary to get on that trolley by herself in San Denis…he knew that Herr Strauss would never have him act as a means of money retrieval ever again…but the dread remained.

     As they left the copse of trees at Willard’s Rest and crossed the railway tracks, the snow deepened considerably, and they slowed down. Arthur caught up and rode abreast of her along the road. Charlotte flashed him a contented smile but said nothing to detract from their pace. It was still early morning.

    Charlotte broke the contented silence as they neared Annesburg. “That ride’s far safer without any Murfrees stalking people from the road. I suppose no one knows to give you credit for their safety?”

     “No, and it’s best to keep it so. My name ain’t exactly celebrated. I’ll stay a Carter to everyone who don’t already know me.”

     “No one will hear any different from me,” she replied.

    He looked at her hard, wondering if she realized the consequences of harboring an ex-outlaw. “There’s no need to…get too mixed up with me, you know. I’ve led a poor life. Ain’t no need to drag you down with me.”

    She looked back at him steadily. “I may be kind, but I’m no fool, Mr. Carter. I understand what may happen.”

    _Then maybe you are a fool,_ he thought, even though a part of him took great solace in her answer. He didn’t deserve such loyalty. Loyalty had nearly been his downfall before…and it appeared that he hadn’t learned any lessons from it, since there he was, hanging on to a widow woman. He supposed he should fear her knowing too much, that she might consider turning him into the law for a reward. But the thought was nearly laughable. He didn’t understand why she should want to willingly bear his past, but she seemed resolved to.

     Trotting quickly through Annesburg, Arthur kept his head down. He saw Charlotte’s obvious joy to be out and about and could not share in it. Exposed in the street, he wondered how many people might know his face in the town…realized that if he were smart, he would depart and go somewhere far off, somewhere north where no one knew him. The gang had certainly made a name for themselves in New Hanover. The shootout with the Pinkertons had been plastered on the front page of every newspaper that he and Charles had seen on their route to Mexico. But outlaws had been a dime a dozen in those days…between the O’Driscolls and Lemoyne Raiders, why should anyone remember him, especially as a dead man? For all of the surety he had in that, he knew it was foolish to have stayed in Roanoke Ridge for so long. But he was invested now, and he knew he would remain so, even if he left.

     Van Horn eventually came into view. Coming to the main street, they slowed to a walk, the dingy buildings only made more so by the cold winter gloom. Charlotte pulled her mare to a halt in front of the abandoned train station. “My friend lives out of town, up near Sawbone Clearing.”

     “Sawbone Clearing? You could’ve mentioned it—we could’ve gone out that way first.”

    “Half your day would have been gone. It’s no trouble to me.” 

     Arthur held out his hand. “Well, at least hand me the sack. I can go get the supplies.”

    “You don’t want us to buy them on the way back?”

    “It’s no trouble to me,” he said, echoing her. She shook her head, pulled the sack from her shoulder and took her gifts from within. He took the long cloth sack and adjusted the strap across his chest. “I’ll finish my business here and meet you out there. We’ll ride back together,” he said, thinking on the dangers of a woman riding alone at night, Murfrees or no Murfrees. They were dangers he knew well, having once been the cause of some of them.

     She nodded. “It’s easy to get there. Just follow the road east up to Butcher’s Creek. There’s a few little shacks out that way in the clearing. You’ll see the brown mare.”

    He remembered the way. “Until later, then.”  

    Charlotte smiled at him, then nudged her horse into a canter and went on alone. Arthur watched her go and cursed under his breath. Sawbone Creek. He had only been out there once, and it had not been for pleasure. He looked northward; felt the tug within him to _go_ , to flee…then watched Charlotte’s form vanish on the road.

        “ _Idiot Morgan_ ,” he muttered to himself.

________________________________________________________________________

    The child sat on the floor, his feet wrapped in old rags, whittling a boat out of wood. Charlotte’s scarf rested around his neck, the mittens resting at his side by a small cooking stove. It was a small shack, with barely enough room for a bed, table and the stove within. The two women sat at the table, watching the boy whittle.

    “Helen, If I’d have known, I would have brought socks or at least some material for his feet,” Charlotte said.

    “You’re kind to remember us at all, Charlotte,” the woman replied, squeezing Charlotte’s wrist in appreciation. “We nearly lost the house once. I’m just grateful we still have this roof over our heads.”

    Charlotte smiled sadly. “It’s been a cold winter. I’m glad you have such a strong boy to help you with firewood.” She directed her words toward the child; he looked up as she said them, unfazed by the praise.

    Helen looked Charlotte over from her thin body to her bony wrists that rested on the table. “It’s been months since we’ve seen one another. You look as if you haven’t eaten much yourself.”

    “I lost my appetite for a long while,” Charlotte replied somberly. “Some of the Murfree Brood decided to pay my home a visit at night. They shot me in the leg and nearly killed me—leaving me to bleed out after they rummaged through the house.”

    Helen stiffened, her eyes ablaze. “They didn’t….?”  

    “No, no… but nearly. Well, a fellow I met some time ago happened to be nearby some hours later. He saved my life. It’s been weeks now that I’ve been stuck to my bed in order to heal.”

    "You should have sent for me by letter. I would have come to you, helped you." 

    "I know you would have...but I was well. I had help from--a neighbor. And besides, I couldn't have well made it down to the post office to send the message along." 

    “It’s a miracle you didn’t die,” Helen said, disgruntled. “How strange that they were so far north. I used to hear gunshots and things near the road, down by Butcher’s Creek. I assumed it was the Murfrees. They never did come knocking down my door, though they could any day, I suppose.”

    “No, I don’t think you need to fear that any longer,” Charlotte said. 

    “Why not? Everyone knows they gather at Beaver’s Hollow.”

    “I heard that some… bounty hunter took care of them, before Christmas. At the very least, there are less of them now.”

    Helen sighed. “If that’s true, then bless the scum that killed them. I have no love for bounty hunters, but I suppose we all serve a purpose.”

    “They’re not all scum,” Charlotte said. Remembering the book she had brought to return, she set it on the table. “Here, before I forget.” She slid it closer to Helen. “You were right. It did help to pass the time.”

    The sight of the book seemed to brighten Helen’s eyes a little. “That Leslie DuPoint certainly has a way with words,” Helen said. “I hear that DuPoint is only a pen-name, and that she writes mostly from her own experiences.”

    “Then I do not envy her such a life,” Charlotte laughed.

    Helen smiled, though her face remained downcast. She was a young woman worn down by care and poverty; it had aged her ten years.

    “Were you able to keep your job sweeping out the saloon in Van Horn?” Charlotte asked.

    “No…the donkey died, and it was too far to walk to receive any proper wages. I sold some of our last things this week—the last of the plates and silverware from the church donation to us last month. There’s…nothing left now.” The confession was hard to speak aloud. Even as she spoke, her face became stony. “But, at least we can’t lose our home. I paid the bank off finally. It took everything I had.”

     So they were starving, and too proud to admit it. Charlotte’s eyes fell from Helen’s face. She rummaged within her many layers of clothing, bringing forth a wad of bills. “I brought this for you, too.”

     Helen sat back, pulling away from Charlotte as the money was laid gently on the table. “No, Charlotte…where did you even get that much money?”

    “It was…a recompense of sorts,” she said, unwilling to share more than that.

     Helen shook her head. “You’re not—you haven’t taken to…” she glanced warily to her boy, but he was not listening to their talk. “… _selling_ yourself, have you?”

     “ _No,_ no,” Charlotte said quickly. “There’s no need to worry for me. I truly want you to take it. Buy some food, another donkey, some winter clothing—even more novels to read. Please, take it.”

     Helen’s hard expression faded rapidly, leaving only a tired woman staring at Charlotte’s extravagant gift. “I just-don’t understand how you got so much. It feels wrong to take it.”

    “I had a stroke of blessings, and now you have, too.” She took the money, over one hundred dollars, and placed it gently in the cover of the returned book, nodding firmly. “There, now—it’s yours. Use it however you see fit.”

     Helen’s voice broke with her thanks, as if overcome by both guilt and relief at the sum. She stood and Charlotte rose with her, accepting the tight embrace of thanks.

     “Your husband would have wanted you to do well, to thrive here.”

    “My Arthur was fond of you,” Helen wept. “I couldn’t have made it here without you, since he’s been gone.”

    “He was a fine man,” Charlotte said.

     “I feel like I could have saved him—kept him from working so hard, kept him from grand promises to debtors, if only he had told me more.”

     “Thinking so will only rob you of your peace,” Charlotte said. “Think on how you still have the boy and your home. All will be well.”

     Wiping her face with the palm of her hand, Helen pulled away from Charlotte and drew her hand over her eyes. Her child, only about eight years old, watched the two women warily, disconcerted by the crying. She held her hand out; the boy went to her, pressed himself against her. “All will be well,” she agreed. They settled in then. Tea was made and the boy showed his final work on the boat to the two women.

     Hours passed, with Charlotte and Helen talking of the winter and the cold, and Helen speaking fondly of her Arthur while Charlotte kept silence about hers. It was too improper of an arrangement, however tame it had remained, to speak openly about. Besides, he would not wish to be known, anyway...though she longed to confide in someone.

    As the afternoon sun shone done, Helen drew out some old newspapers from her small collection of remaining things and presented one to Charlotte. “Here, you may recognize this. Your first story in the G _azette_. It too fine a story to burn in the stove.”

    Charlotte took the paper, her eyes searching down the page for the familiar title, _The Innocent Woman._

“All about a woman getting caught up in the sins of her husband,” Helen said, and began to recite some of the well-read lines from the old page.

    “You’re a true friend, to think of these lines as something worthy of remembrance,” Charlotte said, touched. “I…” she paused, her gaze settling on a small headline at the top of the page.

**_New Hanover Gazette, November, 1899._ **

**VAN DER LINDE GANG REIGN COMES TO AN END NEAR ROANOAKE RIDGE**

_After years of pursuit, Pinkerton agents have finally caught up with the Van der Linde gang in Beaver Hollow. Wanted for GRIFTING and numeral HEISTS, TRAIN and BANK ROBBERIES, the gang rose in notoriety after robbing from and eventually murdering Leviticus Cornwall, businessman. Other evidence points to their hand in the murders of a girl in Blackwater and_ _of Catherine Braithwaite and other family members in Rhodes, as well as arson. The law had successfully brought other gang members to justice, including one Hosea Matthews and Lenny Summers during a heist in Saint Denis._

_Pinkertons were tipped off of the gang’s whereabouts near Annesburg, Roanoake Ridge. After a deadly gunfight, several prominent members of the gang escaped the law, most notably Dutch Van der Linde, wanted by the federal government for $10,000. Other members were killed in the conflict, including:_

_Charles Smith --- WANTED for $1,000_

_Arthur Morgan --- WANTED for $5,000_

_If any information is known about surviving gang members, send…._

Charlotte paused, the name catching her eye. Frowning, she read the words swiftly again. She could see Arthur in her memory, standing in the snow, a fresh cut on his brow and anger seething from him as his defenses dropped. His words rang clearly in her memory: ‘ _I’ve done a lot of things. Enough to know I deserved the hell I lived through.’_

Helen Londonderry frowned. “Charlotte? Are you well?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to invent a name for Mrs. Londonderry. I thought Helen seemed proud and rigid, like her character seems to be in the clip below from the game.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VlsILz94Fog  
> Also, I felt like Mary Beth's book needed a shout out.
> 
> Song for this chapter: Devil Like Me by Rainbow Kitten Surprise 
> 
> Thanks for all of your kind comments! They make my day.


	13. Dead By Her Hand

Charlotte was gone. Arthur sat atop the gelding at the railroad tracks of Van Horn, his hand clenched tight around the saddle horn as his mind ran tracks around itself. He liked to think himself a simple man; there was right and there was wrong, and he had always walked the gray line that ran between. He had often stepped off into one side or the other but had always returned to the safe ambiguity he knew best. It had once been easy to disregard the side of right, when there were women and children at camp to worry on or his standing to consider...but even in the end, when all he hoped to do was salvage what he could, saving the others had meant diving deeper into what all the world deemed as wrong. And now where did he stand? Alone and free of those he had cared for, he had stepped into the right, only stumbling into the gray from time to time when he knew that to be the best course. But now, planted in the gray once more, wrong and right were jumbled, and he did not know which side he would find himself on. Stay and risk Charlotte’s good name, her _life_ even, hoping that no deserved blow from the past should fall upon him, but stand beside her, protect her and build a future together. Or he could leave, keeping her from the stain of knowing him, save her from the dangers he surely had only temporarily outran, and be haunted with another memory of a life he surely did not deserve. What was right could easily become wrong, and wrong could turn on its head to reveal a good decision in time. But there was no way to know without picking a path, knowing that the future could not be foretold.

    “I need that old blind beggar,” he said to himself, turning his horse’s head for the town, “a dollar for some clarity ain’t too expensive.” He meandered down the road toward Van Horn and the dock. Hitching the horse, he shook his head, Bill Williamson’s voice as grating in his memory as it had been in person. _“You’ve gone soft, Morgan.”_  Here he was, worrying about a woman when he knew he should skip town. _If she even wants me_ , he thought, bitterly. She did not know him, though he had certainly told her more than enough to keep a sane person wary. He was a wretch, and he knew it; he had murdered and robbed, and though he had found some measure of redemption despite it all, there would never be full redemption. Try as he might to prove otherwise to himself, Mary’s letter still rang true; the man and the giant still fought on. Tiredly, he walked down the dock and entered the shop.

     The fence greeted him robustly, looked up and recognized him as the man who had bought dynamite and became more serious. Arthur glanced through the shop, saw it was empty of customers and leaned onto the counter. “I’ve got goods to sell. Figured you might be willin’ to buy.”

    The fence nodded twice, stepping nearer to him. Arthur opened his satchel and brought out several of the belt buckles. He then brought ten golden wedding bands and laid them on the counter, purposely holding back much of the goods. Selling to a fence was a hard business; even a man knowingly buying stolen goods might baulk at more than ten rings and start wondering how many women had been widowed.

    The fence’s eyes shifted from the precious metal to Arthur, undoubtedly wondering if a looter, pickpocket or murderer stood in front of him. He said nothing, though, only picked up each item separately and weighed them in his hand. “Ten for each ring,” he said finally, “twelve for the buckles.”

    “Twelve for a belt buckle?” Arthur said derisively. “You’d be hard pressed to find one for twenty in any shop.”

    “Twelve for the lot of them,” the fence corrected him, frowning.

    Arthur rested his palms on the counter. “Now, look here, friend—”

    “You won’t get no better deal. Arguin’ won’t help none.”

    “Fifteen for each. You’re still makin’ good on that.”

    “Fourteen,” the fence said, crossing his arms across his barrel chest.

    Arthur met his narrowed eyes and gave a terse nod of the head. “Fine, fine. Fourteen each, and ten for each ring.”

    The lifted goods were hidden within a felt bag and money was slid across the counter. The exchange thusly made good, Arthur left alleviated of a third of his found items from the cave at Beaver’s Hollow. There was still more to be rid of, but he couldn’t sell there again for some time. Unless he could make it to another fence, he would have to hang on to what remained. Returning to his horse, he pulled out the empty lock box from the cave and tested the latch; still sturdy. He would find a place to bury the rest in the lockbox; keep it safe for when he needed it. He left immediately for the General Store in Annesburg, trotting quickly down the road. He passed two men on horseback, who nodded to him in greeting as they trotted by.

     Spending some of the ill-gotten cash on supplies, Arthur purchased more than Charlotte had intended, getting her little things he knew she had not had or seen for months. Remembering her talking about her love for sweetened condensed milk, he purchased two cans, along with a few yards of thick gray material for the patching she had commented on about needing a few weeks prior. He also bought a yard of canvas cloth. Loading it all into the long sack, Arthur settled the heavy goods along the back of his saddle, adjusting it so that the weight was not too much on either side and securing it with rope. His head was down as he focused on tying off the rope. As he tested the knots, his mind returned to the metal goods still in his satchel; an incriminating load to be found with. Mounting the horse, he nudged the horse’s sides with his heels and rode down the street.

    He hated Annesburg. Every corner was filled with memories he wished to forget, to leave behind him. As he rode, he passed by the dock where Dutch had shot Cornwall. He could still see the splatter of blood against the dock in his mind’s eye, even as he dove for cover, calling Dutch crazy. _Noise, Arthur, noise!_ Dutch had shouted, reprimanding him even as the Pinkertons began to fire at them.

He cut off from the road, the water to his right as he rode down along the path cut through the snow, past the small graveyard, under the bridge and onto the path he had once found Mrs. Downes upon. She had told him to help somebody else, to help himself…or to go hang himself. She had claimed indifference, but her hate was clear. It was a hate that was rightful and deserved; he had known it well. Her disgusted voice was clear in his memory, her hands clenched tightly on his sides as he returned her to her son.

_“So you’re sick now, too. And you think that affords you the opportunity for penance for cutting his time short.”_

_“No,” he said, hoarsely, the cough making his throat raw. “I ain’t lookin’ for that.”_

_Her voice dripped with weary anger. “Then just forget about me and the guilt you’re carrying because no good can come of that for either of us. And all you can do is decide the man you want to be with the time you have left.”_

He pulled his horse to a halt. Staring at the old wagon where he had found Mrs. Downes with the miner, he hung his head and let out a long breath. “The time I have left,” he murmured.  Coming back to himself, he got to the ground and pulled the lockbox from his saddlebag. He opened it, laying the remaining rings and belt buckles into it. He then wrapped the lockbox in the strip of canvas he had just purchased and counted thirty paces from the wagon as he ambled over to a large tree, where the sun had melted the snow and the earth was muddy. He had no shovel, but that didn’t matter for how soft the ground was in the mid-afternoon sun. He knelt down, pulled enough mud out of the ground to make a deep hole and laid the box inside. Kicking clean snow over the hole, he walked over the entire clearing and farther up the road, leading his tracks in several directions. He then mounted his horse, only to look back to the tree, knowing that the next snowstorm would hide the evidence of his digging. Even left somewhat obviously, it was far better for the loot to remain there, saving him from the questions that would surely follow anyone’s finding of it.

     Returning to the road, he started out southwest from Annesburg, cutting into the woods once more for the faster route to Sawbone Clearing. He met with no trouble on the way there; only a few rabbits disturbed the eerie quiet of the woods. The sun was beginning to sink low in the sky. There would only be a few hours of daylight left. Finally, he found the clearing and saw Charlotte’s old brown mare…hitched in front of the small house he never thought he’d lay eyes on again.

    He pulled back on the reins, stopping his horse dead in its tracks. “Well…” he muttered, taking his hat off and pensively whapping it against his thigh, “…shit.”

___________

“Charlotte? Charlotte, are you well?”

    Her eyes scanned over the faded print yet again. She recognized one of the other names in the article; he had spoken of Hosea, the man who had been like a father to him.  _One father hung and the other killed in San Denis,_ she thought, angry that such realities had been glossed over. Charlotte set the newspaper page down. He had told her of his past, of the life he had lead…but somehow seeing it printed on the page had been a blow to her. Leviticus Cornwall’s murder had been the talk of Annesburg for months. Both his death and funeral had been covered in issues of the paper. She had even heard of the Braithwaite troubles near Rhodes. So many people dead, for what? All of the things he had refused to speak about, all of the dark things from the past that he had only brushed over vaguely…what else had been done by his hand?  

    Her voice was distant. “I’m…I’m well. I just realized that I can't follow two paths at once. May I keep this page?”

    Helen nodded. “It’s yours, anyhow. Charlotte, you’re unnerving me. Surely nothing in that old story was enough to shake you.”

    “No,” Charlotte said. “But…perhaps I need a word of advice.” She looked to Helen with a suddenly steely look. “Helen, do you believe that people change?”

    “Change for the better, or worse? Both, I suppose...I’ve known plenty of folks who lifted themselves up from past days and plenty who never bothered to try.” She frowned. “What’s rattled you so?”

    Charlotte shook her head. “I don’t know if I can—”

    Before Charlotte could go on, a rider on a black horse and a dark coat came along the road. His form was distorted through the windowpane, but Charlotte recognized the way the rider held himself in the saddle. Her eyes closed with dread. Of course he would arrive then, before she could speak with Helen properly. She folded the old newspaper page up, placed it deep into her pocket. “I must go, Helen.”

    “With that fellow?” Helen questioned.

    “That old friend who picked me up from the floor and revived me? Well, this is him outside the door.” She buttoned her coat fully, preparing to go. She did not want to speak with Arthur in front of Helen…not after realizing how willingly blind she’d been. She then embraced Helen; it was short, but sincere. “I’ll visit when I can.”

    “Charlotte, you’re acting stranger than I’ve ever known. You’ve given me such a large amount of money…you’ve come all this way to visit and cannot talk about what’s burdening you. You’re not in trouble, are you?”

    “Not in the way you mean to ask, I don’t think,” Charlotte replied with a sad smile, and nodded to both Helen and her son. “Stay well. Both of you.” She turned for the door. Helen followed her out, crossing her arms across her chest in the cool breeze as she closed the door behind her.

    Fifty paces from the two women, Arthur sat atop his horse, his worn hat in his hand and his mouth set to a firm line. As she walked out, Arthur sat straighter in the saddle and noticed that Charlotte looked through him, as if he were not there. She walked to her mare stiffly, not meeting his eye. He then recognized the woman who stood on the porch; the same who had mockingly offered to lie down for him to pay off her debt to Strauss all those years before, driven by anger and resignation. Catching her eyes, he nodded to her as she stared at him, her look of concern heavy across her harsh features.

    “I hear you kept Charlotte from death’s door,” Helen said somewhat guardedly, still wary of Charlotte’s reaction to the stranger’s arrival.

    “Just returning the favor,” Arthur returned carefully, unaware of how his own unsurety had caused him to grow threatening.  

     Helen did not seem to notice, however, and boldly strode forward several paces, an inquisitive look on her face. “I feel we’ve met before, sir. What’s your name?”

     Arthur did not respond, unwilling to give her too much chance to recognize him in return. Seeing he did not mean to reply, Charlotte replied for him, her voice rather deadpan. “Carter. Arthur Carter.”

    “ _Arthur_ ,” Helen repeated, the name a sacred word to her. She walked nearer to him still. It was clear that Helen was no great concealer of her emotions, be they joyful or harsh, and Arthur saw the recognition flash cold across her eyes even at a distance. “Mr. Carter, I know you…and I believe you know me, too.”

    Arthur lowered his hat onto his head, his patience for the encounter dwindling rapidly. In his experience, it was surely a poor sign of things when a woman glared and made claims of knowing a man too well.

    “When did you meet?” Charlotte asked, now mounted atop her mare.

     Helen did not respond to her. Though her voice had softened, it was still strained as she addressed Arthur. “You came to collect my husband’s debt, the debt that killed him—three years ago now.” She walked down the steps toward him, stepping through the snow quickly to better see his face.

    Arthur sighed, keeping his silence. In the old days, he could have killed her or defused the situation by denying it all, claiming that she had the wrong man. But there was no pushing past her or walking off from her now, not with Charlotte looking on.

    Helen stopped in front of him. “I couldn’t have forgotten your face…not after what you did.”

    Charlotte had ridden nearer to them now. Arthur began to turn his horse. “Let me cut this real short, Mrs. Londonderry,” he said, brusquely. “I know what I’ve done—there’s no call to rehash it all now.”

    “That German offered my husband a loan when we were real hard up for cash for the house, then raised the interest so high it would have taken half a year to pay you all off, long after the payment was due. I never did trust him.”

    “He certainly was a snake, I agree,” Arthur said, brazenly.

    “Then my husband…my Arthur, he worked himself to death in the mine, trying to provide for us and let us keep this roof over our heads. We barely had the money to bury him. But then…you forgave the debt,” she said, suddenly filled with sadness over the remembrances. “I’ve often been swallowed by my own pride. I behaved so, that day you arrived, giving me money from your own pocket. I was so angry about Arthur’s death, I couldn’t hardly look at you. But I now know that me and my boy would’ve joined him in the cemetery that year had it not been for your charity.”

    Arthur looked at her incredulously, but then shook his head. “Didn’t bring back your husband none, did it?”

    “No,” Helen said, quietly, “but nothing can, now.” She looked up at Charlotte, with a look that spoke of her concern that Charlotte was keeping company with such a man, despite past generosity and mercy. “Charlotte, this man saved you?”

    “Twice,” Charlotte said, her tone rather muted.

    “Then I have to thank you for her life, too,” Helen said, gravely. “I don’t know what hand you had in all of the loaning, but I do know I’d be a stubborn fool to not thank you for what you did for me…for my boy.”

    Arthur cleared his throat, wary of the praise from something done at the peak of all the regret and desperation he had felt. “Wasn’t hardly anything, so keep your thanks.”

    “I can see you don’t want my gratitude. But here it is, anyhow, taken or not. We were blessed by you.”

    “Then you’re surely unusual in that,” he said, then relented, saying, “Good to see ya alive and well, anyway. The boy alright?”

    “As well as he can be,” she returned. She looked at Charlotte then. “Better off than he would be without either of you.”

    Charlotte watched Arthur's surly expression, remembering that she had spent weeks deciding if he was a hero or a villain... only to decide now that he was both. Burdened by the clashing figure she now saw painted before her, Charlotte made motions to leave once again. She reached down and clasped Helen’s hand. “I’ll write to you soon.”

    Arthur nodded to Helen in farewell, turning his gelding’s head and nudging the animal into a walk to follow Charlotte down the road. Helen watched until they were out of sight.

__________________________________________

     Charlotte rode ahead, her body leaning forward and her shoulders hunched, blocking herself off from him as he followed behind. Arthur bided his time until they had ridden a few miles up the path before urging the horse on to match her pace. He was angry himself; seeing Mrs. Londonderry, though forebodingly expected, had riled him. He suspected that hearing of the loansharking had shaken her, and he supposed that she might be placated with an apology. But he had no apology to offer, and so only glanced to her face in silence.

    “So, you were a debt collector,” she said at last.

    “Amongst other things, yes.”

    A disappointed laugh escaped her. Her whole life, she had cowed away from any harsh words, however truthful they might be. But now a thousand words sprang to her mind that she wanted to throw at him, desiring to challenge him to respond to the rising tide she felt building inside her. She came to an abrupt stop. He mirrored her, a wary look on his face as she pulled the newspaper from her pocket, passing it to him wordlessly. Reading the old articles, she watched his brow furrow and something akin to regret pass over his face. Finally, he passed it back.

    “Well,” he said, heavily, “looks like you’ve finally realized that you’re keeping a wolf alongside you. Can’t say I never spoke on such things, or tried to warn you—”

    “Arson and murder. What of ‘never doing harm to anyone who didn’t ask for it first’? You lied, bold-faced.”

    “I’ve done my fair share of lying, but I _never_ lied to you. Told you from the start who I am, who I was back then and the harm I've done.”

    “You painted quite a picture, I’ll give you that, as if you were some victim who was touted along the way and not the one behind the trigger.”

    “ _Hey_ ,” he growled. “ _I_ ain’t no victim, but _you_ ain’t no one to condemn me. You weren’t there, you don't know how it all was.”

    “No, I wasn’t. But if I were, I would have seen for myself how things really are. _Five thousand dollars_ for you, Arthur…what all could you have done to warrant it?”

    “Plenty that I haven’t told you of, and I’ve still got the damn bounty on my head. You may as well kill me now, turn my body in for the cash—”

    “I would never,” she said, wounded.

    “Then just go ahead and spit on me from your high horse. I’ll not stick around to feel the drops.”

    He took off at a fast canter. She followed; her anger only incensed. They rode quickly and silently. When they finally broke free of the woods and reached the open roads of Annesburg once more, the sunset cast an orange glow over the snow, giving the road an idyllic look that did not match the raging storm that thundered through both widow and outcast. Dread grew within both of them, knowing that nothing had been settled between them. 

    They started northward to Willard’s Rest, silently fulfilling what had been planned before. The sun now sank entirely as they left Annesburg behind, leaving them to travel in darkness. Whatever warmth the afternoon sun had given so freely was sucked away by the creeping night. Charlotte stared hard at Arthur’s back, her anger beginning to give way to the exhaustion that traveling brought.

    Arthur’s horse began to slow, tossing it’s head nervously. Arthur responded, his head snapping up from his brooding thoughts to the dark trees that surrounded them. Charlotte’s own mare stamped as they came to a slow halt, her fingers resting lightly on the rifle holstered in her saddle. From somewhere beyond the road, a low, hair-raising growl came drifting toward them. Arthur drew his pistol, looking back for the first time in hours to Charlotte with an edge of fear in his eyes.

    Suddenly, his horse reared back. Arthur hung on with his legs as the gelding lashed out with its front hooves. He felt a sudden jolt of motion and he landed hard on the ground, rolling as his body slowed in the snowdrift. Reaching for his lost pistol, he aimed haphazardly as four wolves—blurry shapes in the darkness—came from the tree cover. He fired off a shot into the middle of them. They jumped apart as the bullet struck the snow between them. Aiming again, Arthur saw the flash of light from Charlotte’s rifle muzzle as she shot from her horse. The horse danced in fright under her legs. The shot struck a wolf in the body; it fell over. Firing from the ground, Arthur shot another as the remaining two ran off into the woods, and Charlotte finished the wounded animal off as it limped off.

 Arthur groaned, stretching his body to find breaks or tears. He whistled for his horse.

    “Are you alright?” Charlotte asked, her eyes still on the trees.

    “I’ll survive,” he said, dusting the snow from his back off as he whistled again.

    “I haven’t seen wolves along this stretch in years.”

    “Weather’s changing, game’s been moving on to find forage. When the deer move on, the wolves start roaming more.” He whistled yet again; the shrill sound echoed hollowly in the night. No horse came. The wolves could be heard off in the distance. “Damn wolves,” he murmured. He looked to Charlotte, the argument forgotten momentarily. “I’m going after the horse. Go on if you—”

    “No,” she said, unwilling to let him be ambushed by the wolves they had scared off, despite her anger. “I’m with you. Let’s go before something else finds him.” She dismounted, the cold wall between them obvious as she handed him her lantern. “Lead the way.”

    Arthur took the lantern, eying her with resigned irritation. Even angry, the woman would follow him into the dark. He nodded tersely and started off on foot, Charlotte following behind while leading the horse. They followed the vanished gelding’s tracks through the snow, up inclines and down paths. They strayed farther and farther from the road, and still no horse came to meet them. Arthur’s shrill whistles were only met with the sound of thunderous water, even though they had strayed far from Willard’s Rest. “Brandywine Drop,” Charlotte said, as her horse began to nicker and snort, ears flattening onto its head.

  The falls roared tumultuously, water tumbling aggressively to the churning river down below. Arthur remembered days gone by as she spoke the name; a State Marshall shot by an old gunslinger, and an author happy to be free of adventure; the forgotten chest of cash up along the rocky ridge, it’s treasure now lost along with the rest of the gang’s money.

  Charlotte kept a tight hold on the jumpy mare’s tack as Arthur followed the horse’s trail, its tracks now showing an animal that was walking, not running.  From somewhere along the path below, a dark shape moved toward them. Arthur raised the lantern and his pistol at the same time—only to see his black gelding lope tiredly toward them. “ _There’s_ the boy,” he said fondly, relieved. He holstered the gun and took the horse’s rein, patting the horse’s neck appreciatively. He looked to Charlotte, his anger not entirely forgotten, even in the wake of realizing she had saved his life. “That was a hell of a shot—I might’ve been bound for the dirt without it.”

    Charlotte took the praise with a neutral expression, her doubts still aflame in her thoughts.

    “Look,” he said. “I told you I’m no saint. I’ve done plenty of wrong, and not enough right to claim any penance. But I never lied to you, never pretended to have some do-gooder past." 

    "You lied about your name. Now I've lied about your name, too." She let out a short breath, shaking her head. "I can't bear living in the dark about everything, Arthur." 

    "You want to hear everything? What good will it do? Finally convince you to be done with me? You’ve got plenty of reason already.”

    “There’s too much doubt, Arthur, too much mystery. I have to know.”

     He looked on her sorrowfully. “Then I’ll tell you. I’ve killed, Charlotte—made widows out of wives, robbed children of their fathers, taken people’s hard-earned coin to make my own way easier, and slowly sold my soul away. Those things you read in that paper, they were true. But that paper didn’t tell the whole story, did it? That girl in Blackwater? She died, it’s true—but not from my hand. That don’t make it much better, but it wasn’t me who pulled the trigger. And Catherine Braithwaite died in her mansion, sure, the whole place blazing in fire—after she stole a boy from our camp, from his mother, and sold him to a greasy feller in San Denis over a wagon load of moonshine. And old Levitcus Cornwall? He and Dutch had a feud that went farther than me or any of the others truly understood. I was there when he died in Annesburg. I didn't expect it, but Dutch shot him down and threw the blame over all of us for it with the law." ”

    “And the train robberies?”

    “Can’t deny those, or claim any good reason for ‘em, except we were desperate to get free of the rope that we knew to be coming for us. Desperate for money to leave the country and leave our troubles behind.”

    “And Helen?”

    Arthur sighed. “Like she said, her husband got involved with a money lender…a feller I knew, Leopold Strauss. Strauss was a worm and knew how to get desperate folks indebted to him. I was—just the ugly face that appeared to beat the money out of ‘em, when Strauss decided to collect his dues. I beat plenty of desperate folks just to pry the last two cents out of their pocket. Beat a man near Valentine and it nearly led to my own death. Reaped plenty of suffering in return for all that I done.”

    “Yet...you bailed Helen out.”

    “Sure,” Arthur said, frustrated. “I couldn’t take money from a kid, or beat a woman. Besides, that was—” he broke off, shaking his head hard. His voice lowered, the truth he now realized taking the stubborn edge from his voice. “—that was when I didn’t figure on havin’ much time left. We had the same name, me and Londonderry. Him being dead, even though I never met him, well—I realized then that none of it mattered. The money I’d been chasin’ my whole life, was...nothing. Hell, I was nothing, just some hired gun…and nothing’s changed since. I could stand here for weeks, telling you about every wagon we robbed or train vault we cleaned out. But it's like I said before; I never took pleasure when somebody's life ended, never pulled the trigger on any man who wasn't firing on me from the jobs I did. It wasn't about the killin' or the mercy at the time--it was just surviving. I was in too deep to quit. Those folks I ran with...they were my family, and I couldn't desert them. It don't excuse nothing, but there's my reasoning for you." He then looked at her with something close to despair, as if the humility of talking about it all pained him. "You’ve got no reason to stick with me—only a fool would.”

    She stared at him angrily, the lantern light showing the hard expression he wore. The silence between them wound on, with Arthur standing tall in his own disgust with himself and Charlotte’s indignance suddenly stoked by the stubborn challenge he had dished and by months of unsaid words. She stood there by the falls in the dark, suddenly very aware that she was far from help and staring down a man who could doubtless rob her of her life with a practiced hand. But it was not her life that she feared for.

     “You don’t need me,” he went on, quieter than he had meant to sound. “Maybe it’s time I moved on.”

      She raised her chin. “Perhaps you’re right…” she said finally, her voice flat. “…perhaps I was a fool to think well of you, or defend you when I clearly know nothing about all the hell you’ve caused. It’s too difficult, Arthur—I cannot live in ignorance, finding your name in old newspapers, neighbors confronting me about the pain you’ve caused. Hearing Helen praise you today, after finding that article...I don't know what to think anymore.”

    “I can bail out as many widows from bank debts as I want, Charlotte, but it don’t clean the blood from my hands or fix the bounty on my head. Nothing’s different. Why is it so personal now? I’m the same damned fool now as I was when I first saw you.”

    “No,” she said, “it’s very different now.”

    “How? How can any of it be?”

    “What if someone recognizes you, kills you in front of me? You said today that you still have a bounty on your head. How can I ever rest, thinking of what might befall you? And how can I ever know you, if everything is hidden from me?”

     That hung between them for a moment. "It's true," he said finally. "There's no guarantee of a peaceable life or a quiet end for me. I live with that every day." 

     "Well, that's not something I can live with," she said. "And I can't ignore the blood on your hands, either. I cannot bear to live near you any longer or worry on what other crime you've hidden from me. It would hurt too greatly, Arthur."  It was more than a confession of worry, and it was the first time that she had truly hinted in words her true sentiments toward him.  

     Lost in anger that deafened him to this fact, he scoffed cruelly. “Lucky I stumbled across the most lonesome widow in Roanoke Ridge—took more than a confession of murder to get you to turn—”

    “You think me some empty-headed woman, so lacking in companionship I’d harbor any cast-off from the road? And what of you? Some wandering outlaw, alone for years and taking up with me, a crone-ish widow? Was I the only person in the world naive enough to be fooled by you?”

     " _No,_ it was never like that,"he said, then paced in the snow away from her. “Why am I listenin’ to this? If that’s how this all is, then it ain’t no skin off my nose. Come sun-up, I could be gone.”

    “Good,” Charlotte said, her voice thick with anger now. “I wish I’d never laid eyes on you that day at Cal’s grave. You’re right. I don’t need you, and you don't need me. It's best to part ways now.”

    His eyes narrowed as she spoke. His head jerked aside and he looked like she had struck him as he fixed his gaze on the ground, suddenly unable to look at her. He swallowed hard, grinding his jaw together instead of letting another flood of words pour forth, and as he stared at the snow he missed seeing the anger drain from her face. When he spoke, his voice was low and calm. “Then we’ll head back,” he said, quietly, “and I’ll be on my way come morning.” He walked brusquely forward, leading the horse away from the slick rocks near the falls, and passed by her.

    She stood frozen, the crushing feeling of regret causing a twist of turmoil to course through her gut. The words had taken something out of her as she said them; justified or no, she felt a sudden shame for having spoken them…but it was the right thing to do. He was the kind of man to fear, to condemn…and so the sadness that pulled at her only confused her, made the moment worse. She turned, tugging the horse into motion, following behind him about twenty paces. The trail up the hill was steep and so they led the horses on foot. Her patience was gone, her head heavy with fatigue and sadness, her feet wet and frozen in the boots she wore. All this only compounded the grief she felt course through her over losing Arthur, one of the few people she had in the world. For all of the rush of feeling he had caused in her, the deepest had been the steady friendship that had grown. He was right...she was a lonely widow, and she had taken him in despite everything. It was an act that bespoke of desperation, but she didn't care anymore. It all seemed trivial now. As they climbed, the silence between them was deafening. She watched him walk, his shoulders and head low. She had known that he would eventually leave for weeks, perhaps when the weather cleared or he left to wander once more…but not like this. Not because of harshness or words that felt more like a lie with every passing moment. He had looked hurt after she spoke, his attempts to remain stony poor. His reaction had surprised her; for all of the moments they had shared, he had always been so cool toward her. The thought that he cared more than that was sobering, because the reality of him leaving made her realize how much she cared, as well. But the newspaper had been jarring…and despite all of his explanations, it could not cover over the sins he so readily claimed. 

     Arthur walked quickly, his anger rising as he stifled the hard lump in his throat. He had been right not to dwell on hopes, knowing that he would never have what Marston had gotten by mistake, or what Sadie had once had and lost. Maybe he was cursed to live alone; hunting and trapping for bread, growing gray and bitter in the future he’d created for himself. He could wander North, like he had always planned to do. Or he could seek Sadie out, and hunt men like himself for bounties, perhaps dying in the effort…like he should have on that mountain years ago. He still fumed over everything Charlotte had said, her words only echoing all of his fears and regrets. She was right...and that only made things feel all the worse. As they trudged through the icy night, his anger simmered and left him with a numbness. He would depart and see her no more. He hated that she should think poorly of him, or see him for what he knew himself to be; a sinner desperately clinging to the hope that he might leave everything behind him and start anew. Walking fast so that his thoughts would not overtake him, he pushed the coming morning out of his mind because the thought of leaving Charlotte behind left him with a hopeless melancholy. But if she wanted him gone, he would go...it was only for good. He was a weight that would only drag her down, and he knew it well. Mirthlessly, he realized that he had been given the clarity he had hoped for earlier that day. 

Lost in dark ruminations, his foot caught something hard and he stumbled over something half covered by snow. Angrily, he raised the lantern to look for what had caught his foot and found himself looking into the dead, bloated face of a man lying with his shoulders and head propped up against a tree trunk. Arthur stepped backward; the corpse’s ashen, blackened skin stark against the white snow it rested in. The decaying flesh was old, but kept from total corruption in the cold. He wore ragged clothing that had surely been so even in life. The torso had been torn open and innards lay hanging out of the open cavity. Along the exposed flesh, the face skin had begun to droop and sag, leaving the face to look fat and bloated from the now warm afternoons. Across the eyes was a jagged slash not made by wolf or bear, and old blood stained the greenish black hue of the corpse.

     Arthur looked back to Charlotte, who had stopped abruptly behind. “Charlotte—” he nearly warned her of the gruesome discovery, but as he saw her still face in the lamplight, he saw that she had shed some tears during their trudge up the hill, and it gave him pause.

Seeing the corpse at their feet, Charlotte’s eyes widened and she stepped backward hastily, her breath suddenly quick in her chest. 

     “Just some unlucky bastard. Looks like the wolves found him before we did,” Arthur said, frowning at her with concern. 

     “Yes,” Charlotte said slowly, her voice small, "but he found me before the wolves.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it was a newspaper clipping that brought Arthur to Charlotte when she needed him most, it's bittersweet that an article should be what drives yet another wedge between them. 
> 
> As some might have noticed, there is no General Store in Annesburg, a fact that often irritated me in the game. So for the sake of the story, I created one! 
> 
> Sorry for the long delay between chapters. The next one is already in the works.
> 
> I changed the rating of the story to M for some of the darker things coming up. Going to be the same style of story, for sure though. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading!! 
> 
> RDR Reminiscent songs: How Low by Jose Gonzales and Owe by Kail Baxley


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